


Crumble into me (It's all I want from you)

by TheEagleGirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Corruption, Dark!Jon, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Incest, Jon is really really dark, Jon is very dark, Loss of Innocence, Mindfuck, Murder, Organized Crime, Sansa is corrupted, Serial Killers, don't read if you are easily weirded out, warnings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:02:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 32,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2662874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEagleGirl/pseuds/TheEagleGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon likes nothing more than hurting people and proving the world right about him. Why not do both?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is really dark. I am surprised that I even thought about it, or that I could even write it. Seriously, I usually like fluff and angsty stuff with happy endings. I don't know how this shit got into my head, but now that it is here, I can't get it out. Don't hate me!  
> Starts off on Thanksgiving, in honor of our upcoming holiday.  
> Jon is really messed up here, and he wants to make Sansa just like him.
> 
> Ages:   
> Jon-23  
> Robb-23  
> Sansa-17  
> Arya-16  
> Bran-15  
> Rickon-8

Father drones on and on about how  _thankful_ he is for such a wonderful family. In the meanwhile, Catelyn glares at Jon, Arya pinches Rickon under the table, and Robb texts his girlfriend from under the table. Jon would think, at this point, that Father would realize that Rickon is squirming and pushing away Arya's hand, that Jon is bubbling with anger over his wineglass, and that Robb really has no idea what's going on. Even Bran, who is usually better at these things, isn't paying attention. He's staring at Mr. Reed's daughter, who is mouthing words to him from across the table that, for some reason, make Bran blush. 

The only one of the Stark's kids paying attention is Sansa. Sansa, with her long red hair brushing Jon's elbows where they rest on the table. Sansa, whose eyes are glued on her father. Sansa, who is the perfect child.

_Not so perfect,_ Jon thinks. He thinks about putting his hand on her thigh, resting it there. She might screech, and slap it away. Then again, knowing Sansa, she would probably stiffen, wait for Father's speech to be over, and then slap him.

_Perfect little flower._ Isn't that what Catelyn had called her, only last week?  _Perfect, perfect, perfect._

Jon has only been staying back at home for a week, and he feels the  _need_ crawling up his fingers. The need to choke someone. To kill someone. To paint the streets red and leave the body where everyone can see.

Arya understands. Or she will, when she's older. Jon can feel it. Arya is like him. He barely spends any time with Rickon, but he can see that the little bugger is more like him and Arya than Robb, Bran and  _Perfect Sansa._  

Jon wonders how Father would feel, if he took Jon's head and carved out his mind. Would he be disgusted, Jon wonders, if he saw the monstrosity inside Jon? The raging fire, the tinglings, the  _need_ that Jon feels all the time. If Father took a look inside Jon's head, would he scream? Jon hopes so.

Knowing Father, though, it's unlikely. If Father knew, he would use it. Against the Lannister Crime Family. Just like he already uses everyone in the Stark Crime Family until they are spent, until they have nothing left to offer him.

_It's your fault. Yours, dear old dad, that I love the feel of life between my fingers. That I love taking it._

Jon can feel his fingers clutching at his knees. All the Family is here. Now is not the time to be distracted.

His father's reign over these men is tight, like a leash. They would follow him to hell and back. Most of them have. It's amazing, how they all trust in him so completely. How they all love him, after what he makes them do. 

Jon wants that. He wants that kind of love.

He  _needs_ it.

Father finishes his speech, and looks back at Jon when he sits. His face tightens for a moment, and Jon wonders if Ned Stark, crime boss, knows what he is thinking under the skin, what his face doesn't show. But no. Father isn't even looking at him. He is frowning at the clock behind Jon's head. There's a job going on tonight.

Jon turns his face to Sansa, "Excuse me," he says, his voice pleasant. She stops talking to her mother and smiles, unsure. "If they bring out the turkey, save me a piece, will you? I've got to go to the restroom."

Catelyn's eyes follow him as he walks to the restaurant's bathroom. He feels the hate in them.

_Good,_ he thinks, and it's a bitter thought.  _I want you to hate me. Because your husband still won't throw me away. Remember that._

* * *

Sansa hasn't seen her half brother in a year.

The moment he finished college, he left New York. Left their five story house with the servants and the butler and the nice elevator that Sansa  _loves_ and left. She hasn't thought much about him in the past year. He's been in Canada, Toronto, maybe? All Sansa knows is that it's cold, and when Arya visited him for winter break Sansa wrinkled her nose in distaste, almost feeling the snow and the wind. At least she had a car. At least she didn't need to be out in the cold that much.

Still, when Arya and Robb came home from visiting their brother, they had been happy. Sansa's own winter break had been a sullen occasion. Joffrey had broken up with her again, and Willas, her friend's older brother, didn't answer his phone when she wanted to hang out with someone on New Year's.

She and Jon weren't close, but they weren't mean to each other. She called him on his birthday and Christmas, and sent him presents. She'd even laughed with him about Arya's brief stint on the baseball team. She'd gotten angry with the pitcher and threw a baseball at his head. It wasn't really funny, but Jon had started laughing when Robb gave Sansa the phone while he took the cake out of the oven, and Sansa laughed with him.

Now, though, Jon is silent. He doesn't want to be here. Father practically ordered Jon to come home. "It's not safe," Father whispered when he thought Sansa wasn't listening, "Jon they're going after our family. We need you here. To help us take care of things."

If this is taking care of things, Sansa can see why Jon is so angry.

Father had asked (told) him to drive Sansa to and from school.  _It will be odd if I have a guard on her,_ Father had said,  _but her brother driving her to school isn't a red flag. No one will think it's anything of note._

Now there is a silence, an angry, tense silence, as Jon grips the wheel.

"I'm sorry," Sansa says finally. "I could've fought Daddy, but you know how he gets. It'll blow over soon."

Jon laughs, and there's an odd quality to it. Like when Sansa listened to an old record and then the new CD version. The CD sounds clean and smooth, but the record sounds scratchy, false to her ears. Jon's laugh sounds like a scratch on Sansa's ears and there's something  _wrong_ with it, she knows. It sends a trickle of fear into Sansa. She's never been afraid of her brother before.

Once they get onto the highway, Jon stops. There's traffic, and Sansa groans inwardly. Of course she'd be late today. Of course.

"Do you have anything to eat?" she asks. Usually she gets a granola bar from the vending machine, but it doesn't look like she has time today. 

"Yeah. Back seat. I have some cereal."

Sansa stretches into the back, and it's only when she sits back down that she realizes how much skin she's revealed. Daddy doesn't approve of the way she dresses, so she wears a coat outside. But in Jon's car she took it off. 

She's imagining things. Why else would it look like Jon's staring?

He meets her eyes as she munches on the cereal. Like always, Jon's face is intense. It always has been. His eyes stare right into hers, and he scares her sometimes, with the intensity of his gaze. Suddenly, Sansa feels self-conscious. She wants to smooth down her hair, pull down her skirt from where it's ridden up. But she can't, because that would be weird. He's her brother. He won't look at her that way.

Lately, all the guys that look at her have a sneer in their eyes. It's all Joffrey's fault, for telling them those lies about her. No one's just looked in her eyes in a long time.

Jon reaches forward, slowly, and grabs some cereal. He eats it, eyes on Sansa's, and the turns back to the road. There's a space in front of them, and Sansa uses this time to compose herself. She didn't do anything, yet her face is scarlet, she can feel it, as if she's done something wrong. As if she has done it with  _Jon._

She feels his eyes on her as she walks out of the car. They hadn't spoken for the rest of the ride.

* * *

Jon feels his breath quicken as he turns into the driveway. It's time.

He's chosen randomly. He hasn't staked out, hasn't stalked his prey, barely found out the woman's name before he decided. But he  _needs_ it so badly. He can't wait another minute.

Jon's always prided himself on his patience. But it feels like his skin is stretched too tight, like air is restricted in its path to his lungs, like he's about to die unless he can get his anger and feel someone else's pain. He knows what to do. And this Lysa Arryn is perfect for the job. She even looks like Catelyn. That always helps. He's been dreaming about killing his stepmother since he was twelve.

She answers the door, and there's a baby screeching in the back, "Hello?" she says breathlessly. Her hair is a mess, and she's wearing a robe. 

"Mrs Arryn? I'm Nate, your husband's lawyer. May I come in for a moment?" Without waiting for an answer, Jon strides in and closes the door behind him. 

Perfect.

It's only after, when he's cut a smile into her throat and watches the blood gurgle into the drain of the bathtub, that Jon sees someone else in the dead woman's face. His skin has started buzzing, and he feels drunk-in a good way. Instead of Catelyn Stark, though, he sees Sansa. Her face is pale, her eyes are wide, and her skirt has ridden up, just like in the car this morning. He saw her pink underwear through the tights, and for a moment, he sees them on the dead woman. Then he shakes his head, feeds the crying baby some cereal, and leaves. 

_Perfect little flower. Perfect little flower._ But now, the flower is stained red from where Jon's picked it up with his hands. He closes his eyes for a moment before he drives onto the highway. It's time to pick Sansa up.

_Perfect. Little. Sansa._

What if she wasn't so perfect? Jon wonders. He thinks of her flushed face in the car, how she seemed almost shy when she left. He hadn't done anything to her, but she seemed nervous. He let the mask slip. That mask he held so perfectly in place. It disappeared for a moment.

Pink underwear. Short skirt, even in the winter. Sansa's different than she was.

Jon licks his lips, almost unconsciously. He is suddenly aware that he's in the school's parking lot.

Sansa unlatches the car door and sits down in her seat.

Her smile is unsure.

_Perfect._

* * *

Jon and Robb are six years older than Sansa. They were always too old to play with her. But now, she can't help but feel that Jon is playing a game with her, right now.

Why else would he have opened his door to her?

Jon lives in the basement of the mansion. It's a huge house, out in Long Island, with five stories. Jon, however, chose the basement when he was fifteen. Father remodeled it, and now it looks like its own apartment.

"Why are you here?" he asks. Sansa is jumpy.

"Well, I-" she clears her throat. They could have had this conversation from his doorway. Oh, why did he invite her in? She feels small, with him towering over her.

Sensing her unease, Jon smiles, and it sends a tingle down her spine. She feels strange now. She shouldn't be here. That smile looks almost...predatory, coming from her brother.

"Robb will never agree to this," she says, and it comes out in a whoosh, like she's expelling the sentence from her body. "But my friend Jeyne Poole is having a party and we need someone to buy us booze."

Jon's smile fades, and Sansa's heart sinks, "So you want me to break the law for you," he says, and there's something funny in his voice, as if he finds it hilarious. 

"I-yes, I guess."

" _Yes, I guess,_ " Jon imitates. His voice is high, mimicking hers and Sansa winces. 

"Can you even hold your liquor?" Jon asks, and leans in until his face is inches from hers. She stops breathing. "Have you ever even gotten drunk?"

She nods. "Yes, I-I have. A lot."

Jon walks away so suddenly that Sansa feels the absence of his presence acutely. "Prove it," he says, and pulls out a bottle of rum from his fridge.

Sansa's mouth goes dry, "What? Are you crazy, Jon? Mom and Daddy are right upstairs!"

Again, Jon makes fun of her, " _Mom and Daddy._ Are you a teenager, San? Or are you still a baby, hoping that Mommy and Daddy will take care of you? Prove it, and I'll buy you all the beer you want." He grins as though he knows what she wants to say. As if he knows that she wants to walk upstairs and away from him. Instead she grabs the bottle in a fit of anger, unscrews the cap, and takes a pull.

It burns. Sansa coughs and almost falls down. "Happy?"

Jon laughs. It sounds real. He leans in and Sansa can feel his breath on her face, "Not even," he says. "That was a sip. This is a drink."

Slowly, he tips Sansa's head back by her hair and tilts the bottle into her mouth.

She can't swallow it all, and it burns in her mouth and slides out onto her shirt but she can't wipe it away. Her hands are suddenly on the bottle and she's drinking, on her own, a big gulp.

When she opens her eyes, Jon's hand is still in her hair and the bottle is a little lighter. She sees something she can't explain in his eyes.

"Happy?" she asks again, only this time her words are slower and they burn their way out of her slowly. She is lightheaded and her chest feels warm.

"Yes," Jon whispers. They are only inches apart, and Sansa whimpers. He tilts the bottle into her mouth again. "Drink some more," he murmurs, only this time, his lips are warm on her ear.

She does. And then so does he, until the tension in the room ebbs away, and Sansa tilts her face to the side to kiss her brother on the mouth.

_It's wrong,_ says a voice that sounds, almost, like her mother. But she hasn't really listened to her mother much these past few days, so she just deepens the kiss, clutches at Jon's curls and pulls him closer until the only things between them are clothes. She tugs at those too, but Jon shakes his head and tells her to wait.

"I don't want you to be drunk," he whispers. "I want you to wake up and see what you did, freely."

She thinks that she should know what he means, but her head is in the clouds and she is clutching him even as he bites the back of her neck so hard she thinks she might be bleeding.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How will Sansa react to her actions last night?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get a look into the inner workings of Ned's criminal kingdom.

 Sansa groans when she wakes up.

Her head is killing her, and she can't remember why. The words _rum_ and _Jon_ tumble through her brain, but that doesn't make any sense. Sansa's only ever drunk beer and wine, when Father allows it. She's gotten drunk a handful of times, once with Joffrey, once with Margaery, once with Jeyne and one memorable time with Willas, when she'd giggled so much that he had to kiss her to keep her quiet. The hangovers after had been unpleasant, yes, but none quite like this. Sansa feels like her throat is on fire, she's parched, and the back of her neck hurts. In fact, it's throbbing.

_Rum,_ she realizes, _and Jon._

"Oh my god," Sansa croaks, and her eyes open.

She's in Jon's room. On his bed. He's not with her, but there's an Advil and a glass of water by the nightstand. Sansa can't feel her fingers, but she sees that they are shaking, badly. So much that she can barely hold the glass to her mouth.

_We were drunk. We were drunk. Oh, god. What have I done?_

For some reason, she hears Jon's voice in her head, and it's contorted through the ache pounding inside her. "Wake up and see what you did, freely," Jon says in her mind, and his voice is near her ear, brushing her cheek, in her hair, and Sansa can't feel her fingers because they're shaking so hard.

There is a loud noise from upstairs, and Sansa jumps. She can't be here. Why is she still here?

As she gets to the stairs, she catches a view of herself in Jon's bathroom mirror. The door is open, and the glass is fogged up. Someone's taken a shower, she realizes. Jon's taken a shower. The steam is still there.

Her hair is a mess, and her makeup is smudged. Sansa quickly rubs off the eyeliner under her eyes and combs her hands through her hair. When she accidentally touches her neck, she cries out.

In the back, hidden by her hairline, is a small bite, and Sansa can only see it if she contorts her body and lifts her hair. Even then, she can barely see it in the mirror. But there is bruising around the bite, and she can see that the skin might've broken in one place.

Sansa touches it. She doesn't know why, but it sends a weird feeling to the pit of her stomach. Almost as if she enjoyed it, when he bit her there.

_That's crazy_ , Sansa tells herself. _You're crazy. Why on earth did you kiss your brother?_

In the reflection and the steam of the shower, Sansa looks messed up and faded out. There's something about her reflection that bothers her, that makes her feel different. Before she can figure it out, her head throbs, and she decides to go upstairs and find a way to her room without alerting anyone to her presence.

* * *

 

It's a Saturday, and all Jon can think about is Sansa.

He hasn't seen her since this morning, when he left the Advil in her room. She'd looked beautiful, with her hair red on his pillow, her skirt riding up when she moved, the makeup staining her skin.

She looked real, the most real Jon's ever seen _Perfect_ Sansa.

It took all of Jon's willpower to not kiss her again, to pull up her skirt while she slept and kiss her thighs, bite them, mark them with his teeth. But Jon knows that if he wants to win this game, Sansa has to come to him. She has to _beg,_ she has to want it, like she did last night. Taking her while she was drunk wouldn't satisfy Jon. He wants her sober. He wants all of her and he wants her willing.

There's something about her imperfection this morning that lingers when she comes downstairs for lunch. She's perfectly made up, and looks like she's been in her room all night, not underneath him in his bed. If Father sees that she drinks too much orange juice and can't look at Jon, he doesn't notice. But Jon does. He sees the tremble in her fingers that hadn't been there the day before, the shifting of her eyes, the shake of her shoulders. Jon likes it, that she's so nervous. He likes it, that she isn't blabbing like a little tattle tale to Father. It's a good sign.

Right now, he's playing Call of Duty with Arya when Father calls him into his office.

He brushes Sansa's shoulder on the way there, and hears her intake of breath.

_Perfect,_ he says. Everything's perfect.

Father locks the door behind Jon when Jon comes in. Inside his office, men sit around the table, Catelyn's cooking passed around and there's the clatter of silverware on china that makes Jon smile. His fingers twitch when he sits next to Robb and they only stop when he holds the steak knife in his hands.

"Pass the steak," he says to Robb.

The men only sit down and have a meal like this when there's important business to discuss. Today, Roose Bolton and his son are here, as well as Jon "The Great" Umber, Dacey and Maege Mormont, the fat Manderly brothers and Barbrey Dustin. Uncle Ben and his men aren't here, but it's probably 'cause the police are watching them. Jon feels disappointment. He likes Ben's guys, even enjoys talking to Sam, who knows about Jon's _tastes_.

Dacey touches Jon under the tablecloth to get his attention, "Do you know what's going on?" she breathes.

"No," he answers. "But Jorah's not here. Didn't he have a job last night?"

Dacey shakes her head, "That's not it. He has a busted rib and couldn't make it."

Jon shrugs and keeps eating.

Father waits until everyone's done. Finally, he sets down his cutlery and says, "Everyone done? All right then. Roose, lets start with you."

Roose Bolton clears his throat and begins to talk about his operations.

"We've been keeping our eyes on this one detective for months. Her name's Brienne Tarth. She's got connections with the Lannisters, but she doesn't seem to realize that she's covering for 'em when they get in a bind. She's usually straight and narrow, except for when Jaime Lannister comes to see her. They're not in a relationship, but she's in love with him. Tywin's getting his son to use that. We can use that too. I say we feed the bitch some info against the Lannisters and make them paranoid when she reports to Jaime. That way, they'll think we wanna hit 'em at their warehouse in Queens, the one by the pier, when we really focus on the one in the Bronx."

Father looks interested, not that anyone would know by his face. He is expressionless, but Jon sees his eyes lighten for a moment.

"How do you propose we feed the info to her?"

Dacey clears her throat. "I can do it. I know her. We're not in the same unit, but I know people in Vice. I can arrange something. Anonymous calls or letters."

Jon sees Dacey's badge under her jacket. She's been a homicide cop for almost four years, but no one ever leaves the family business.

"Nah," Jon says, "That's too vague. Why would Lannister believe that? You have to make it seem official. Why don't you let Robb write up a fake testimony? Leave it on her desk by accident. She's in Vice, right? So get the testimony to be a Stark Family dealer talking about some 'plans' we have. That way she can have a legitimate reason for having the file."

Dacey looks at Father, expectantly. It's a good idea, and Jon can tell she's already on board.

Father looks to Robb, "Can you forge a testimony?"

Robb nods, clearly pleased to be the center of Father's attention, "Yes."

Jon feels the rage bubble in his chest. He came up with the idea, and now Father's looking at Robb like he's a genius.

Makes Jon angry enough to want to kill something.

When the meeting finishes, Jon chats with Dacey for a minute. They've hooked up once or twice before, and Dacey's only three years older than him. Still, Jon likes how she never lets their hookups faze her. She's always treated him the same.

Right now, though she looks tense.

"There's a big job going down soon," she tells Jon in the kitchen as Father says goodbye to the rest of the guests. "Your father wants Robb to step up in the family. He's grooming him to lead."

Jon knows this, so he raises his eyebrows. Dacey tenses even more, if possible.

"So," she whispers, "People won't follow Robb. He's the paperwork guy. No strength. Smart, but not inspiring. People don't _want_ to follow him. You get me?"

She looks into Jon's eyes and he does, in fact, get her. He nods.

"Good," Dacey says, and presses something into Jon's hand. It's a disposable phone. "Call that number when you need us. Bolton's gonna answer. It's a special line. I've programed my number in as pizza delivery."

Jon can't help it, but he gives Dacey that smile that is always itching under his mouth. It scared Sansa last night, but Dacey takes it in stride.

"I will," he says.

* * *

 It's Monday again before Sansa talks to Jon.

"I-I'm really...Jon, can you look at me?" she says, and her voice cracks. They are back in his car, and the past few minutes have been in silence. Sansa wishes that Jon would talk, would shout, would yell at her for kissing him. She doesn't wish he'd kiss her again, not until he meets her eyes, and something loosens itself in her stomach.

_Oh,_ she thinks. Then she plows on ahead, "Jon, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to kiss you. I really...it was an accident and I was drunk. I'm sorry."

Jon doesn't answer for a long time. Sansa thinks, when she chews on her lip, that his gaze darkens, but that's her imagination.

She's been thinking about what happened for days now, and she can't stop thinking about how wrong it was.

_How exciting, with his hands rough in her hair, his tongue on hers, his hips pressed into her stomach as she leaned back against the wall._

No, Sansa does not think about that. She just thinks about how she feels sick every time they're in the same room.

"You have nothing to apologize for," Jon says in the end, and Sansa's eye's drift shut in relief.

"So we're good?" Sansa asks as he pulls into her school.

Jon's eyes are so dark that Sansa's throat closes as she tries to swallow. "The best," he says, and his voice is low. "Look in the trunk."

Sansa pops the trunk and sees the case of beer. Grinning, she closes it and walks back to the side of the car. "Thank you," she says, and finally Jon smiles at her.

"No problem. When's the party?"

Sansa giggles, "This weekend. Saturday."

When Jon pulls out of the parking lot, Sansa's so happy she feels like she's flying. She needs to find Jeyne, immediately.

 When Sansa finally does walk in the school building, she sees Joffrey talking with his friend Sandor. Sansa hasn't spoken to him in the past three months, barely looked his way, but now she meets his eyes boldly before walking past him.

  _My brother's a better kisser than you,_ she thinks in the secret corner in her mind that she thinks Jon's opened up. _You kiss like a slimy baby. Jon kissed me so well I thought I'd melt into the walls._

 Sansa is so shocked with this thought that she nearly drops her books.

He was a better kisser, she realizes. It felt good. He knew, unlike Willas and Joff, what he was doing. The thought makes Sansa blush. She shakes it out of her head.

"God, Sansa," Margaery says from behind her. "What's that on your neck?"

Margaery links her arm through Sansa's and Sansa smiles tightly.

"I don't-I'm not quite sure, actually. I fell on Saturday and scraped myself on a nail." Sansa cringes. It's a bad excuse, but Marge is too busy smirking at Lancel to notice.

"Well, it looks garish, darling. I hope it fades by the party."

_I don't,_ Sansa thinks.

Once again, the though is so uncalled for that Sansa scares herself.

* * *

Jon and Ramsay crouch behind the desk.

"Do you have it?" Ramsay asks, and he spits out blood into a tissue. It looks like his cheek is gonna bruise.

"Yes," Jon says, and opens his fist. Jaime Lannister is on the floor of the office, blood pooling around his right arm where Ramsay stabbed him. Jon doesn't care. The red looks beautiful and for a moment Jon wants to make more of it, wants to cut Lannister into so many pieces that there's nothing but red. Ramsay looks like he wants the same, but they have their orders.

Jon closes his fist around the flashdrive. "Time to go," he announces, and Lyanna Mormont steps out of the closet, where she's been looking for the file they're _actually_ after.

"I just need to take some more pictures of the file and we're done," she says.

There's barely anything on Jaime Lannister's computer. Nothing important, anyway. But this file, on Gregor "The Mountain" Clegane, is priceless.

He's there number one hit man. And now, they know where he is.

jon hasn't taken off his mask all night, and when he's finally back in his car he scratches his face. The wool is itchy on him, and by the time he drops off Ramsay and Lyanna at Father's office, the itch is almost unbearable. Still, it fades when Sansa calls him.

"Jon?" She asks, as if anyone other than him would answer the phone.

"Can you come get me?" She asks, and Jon can hear the sob in her voice.

Jon doesn't even need to ask where she is. He just turns on his GPS and types in Jeyne Poole's address.

The party is still in full swing when Jon gets there. It's in Manhattan, and Jon was only a few blocks away, dropping Ramsay and Lyannna by his father's office. He makes the ride in under fifteen minutes, and it's only ten thirty when he gets there.

Sansa is outside the building, and she looks like she's been crying. She runs in to the car as soon as she sees him.

"Please take me home," she says.

Jon pulls into the street, "Tell me what happened." The anger is there, under his words, but if Sansa hears she doesn't say.

"I-give me a minute."

It's not until they're nearly home that Sansa begs Jon to stop the car, and throws up. Jon follows her out of the car and holds her hair. There's not much, and it's mostly dry heaving, but Sansa's eyes are full of tears when she opens them. Jon passes her a piece of mint gum wordlessly.

"Talk. Now." he says, and there's something in his voice that leaves no room for argument.

* * *

"Joffrey tried to kiss me. He did, actually, and then he touched me." Sansa's breath is deep and shudders through her. "I-Jon, he tried to..."

Jon nods and wipes at her cheek. He looks blank, and his face barely moves when he tells her to go on.

"I said no, and then he told me I was asking for it. _Me, asking him for it._ I shoved him, and went out to find Margaery, and then she just laughed at me. Just laughed, Jon!" Sansa leans against the seat and closes her eyes. "Why are all my friends assholes?"

Jon shakes his head, "Joffrey is not your friend. Remember that, Sansa."

She starts to cry. "No one, not Joff, not Willas, not even Margaery, treats me like I'm a person, you know? Not even mom. They all treat me like...like I'm a doll, a perfect little doll for them."

Jon shakes his head. Sansa looks at him, in the driver's seat. They've pulled over, and a car passes them. His face is suddenly bright with the floodlights, but his eyes are still dark, still on hers. "Believe me, Sansa," he says, and his words pull through her and shiver in her chest, "You are far from perfect."

Suddenly, Sansa is over her seat and in his lap. She kisses him, and Jon jerks underneath her hands. She gets the sense that she's surprised him, and that gives her a thrill. Lately, she feels like everything is predictable, expecially when it comes to her. But this, this has surprised him.

Jon doesn't answer her kiss, and for a moment Sansa is so scared that she stops. She's maneuvered in the car so that she's straddling him, and his hands are on her waist.

"I-" she starts, and then takes a breath. "It's been a week, and I can't _stop._ " Tears gather in her eyes again. "I can't stop," she sobs and Jon holds her against his chest as she cries out. Finally, she finishes her sentence, mumbling against his shirt, "I can't stop thinking about you."

Sansa wants to be comforted, she wants him to hug her and tell her the magical solution to stop desiring your sibling. She wants to forget, to stop touching the bruise that's lingered on the back of her neck, and she wants Jon to tell her it's going to be all right.

He doesn't. What he does is kiss her ear. "Shh," he tells her. "I've got you."

He tilts her head up and kisses her so hard Sansa thinks she's going to faint.

She thinks he whispers " _Perfect"_ against her mouth, but she can't be sure, and when his fingers inch under her skirt, she cries out and stops thinking for the first time in her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think about this chapter, and any suggestions for the next ones would be appreciated as well.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is confused- and a little turned on. This is wrong, but it doesn't feel that bad. It's only wrong if her mother finds out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to popular demand, Ramsay is back!

The _trick,_ Jon has learned, to getting people do what you want them to do isn't in pushing them. At least, not overtly. No, the trick to controlling others is to plan the idea, to make them think that they came up with it all on their own, to make them feel _guilty_ , knowing what they've thought up and not knowing that Jon's placed the thought into their heads like he places an egg on the fryer. He puts the thought in with comments, glances, and lets it simmer, until it's done cooking. By the end of that, they're done. Compliant. And this way, Jon doesn't have to strong-arm anyone into anything. To him, this is a win-win situation. He doesn't waste his breath, and people do what he wants.

Well, maybe not a win-win situation. But it's close enough.

Sansa was easy. It might have taken a little longer than Jon thought it would, and she might have surprised him in his car, but now, with his fingers in her slickness, he doesn't care. She feels hot under his hand, and her moans and whimpers make Jon incredibly hard. The windows are fogged, and Jon is leaning back as far as he can so that he can stare at his sister's face.

Her eyes are shut, and her face is turned away from his, as if she can't stand to look at him, too ashamed of herself.

It's alright. Jon will get her to look.

He stills his fingers, and Sansa whimpers again. It makes Jon think of a small animal, trapped and frozen, unable to and unwilling to make any noise.

Still, Jon knows how to make Sansa react, and she opens her eyes. They are a shock of blue in the darkness.

"Please," she whispers, and her voice is tight with need. "Jon, please don't stop."

The trick, Jon has learned, is not to only make them think this is what they want, but it is also to reinforce it. Sansa needs to beg. She needs to know that she's _asked_ him to do this. That he stopped, but she still wants it.

She sobs out and falls onto Jon's shoulder when he starts moving again.

There is a seizing under Jon's fingers and Sansa bites his shirt to keep from crying out as her orgasm hits.

For a moment, the only sound is Sansa breathing as Jon keeps his fingers deep inside of her.

He hasn't fingered a girl in a car in ages. Somehow, it didn't feel this potent to Jon before.

Sansa finally raises her head and she can't look at him again.

"Hey," Jon says, and extracts his hand finally. The elastic of Sansa's underwear falls back into place. She shivers at the noise it makes.

"I-I can't..." Sansa says when he touches her face.

Jon puts on a serious expression, as if what he's done has just impacted him, "Sansa," he says, and she can hear the panic in it, can't she? Sansa looks up, and the panic is in her eyes as well, "We can't tell anyone about this," Jon continues.

"Of course not!" Sansa says, and her cheeks, already flushed, burn even more. "I'm not an idiot, Jon."

"Good," Jon says. And then, with the hand still wet from her, he grabs her chin. Sansa's eyes darken a little.

She leans in, and her hands are tiny on his shoulders. Finally, she lets her weight sag against Jon and he knows she can feel his hardness through her panties. She moans and her eyes flutter shut.

The trick is to keep them coming back for more.

* * *

When Sansa wakes up on Sunday, her mother is knocking on her door, asking her if she wants to go to Church.

"Sure," Sansa says before her mom's words hit her, really hit her. And then Sansa feels tears edging into her eyes.

She can't go to church. Not when she did _that_ with Jon the night before.

As if remembering, Sansa feels a throb between her legs, and her panties feel uncomfortable, almost strangling. Suddenly, it is too much, and Sansa pulls off all her clothes and runs to her bathroom.

The water is hot, but not as hot as Sansa's face is when she remembers, when she scrubs her body with the loofa, as if it can tear off the skin that Jon touched.

The skin she'd begged him to touch.

Sansa doesn't delude herself. It felt good. Amazing, really. In her seventeen years, no one has ever touched her like that. She's never let anyone touch her. Joffrey got to second base once, over her clothes. Willas was too much of a gentleman to ask. And Sansa- she'd never, ever done that. Never.

But she let Jon, her half-brother, get her off in his car.

She'd _asked him to._

She doesn't look in the mirror when she steps out of the bathroom. She can't bear to see herself.

Because she knows that she wants more.

  


  


Church has always been something that Sansa and her mother did.

Robb came occasionally, and Bran too, when Meera and Jojen went, but no one else. Father didn't believe in God as a being that needed worship, and the rest of Sansa's siblings didn't care much for spending the whole day with Father Chayle droning on and on about purity. But Sansa liked the hymns, and she could pretend that they were beautiful songs about love and life and knights and their ladies. They were in Latin, and who's to say that Sansa was wrong? And she's always taken the Father's words on purity of mind and body as something to live by. But today, after what Sansa _did_ , the sermon is mortifying. Everyone seems to look straight at her.

 _You're dirty,_ the statue of Mary seemed to say. _Impure. Terrible. An Abomination._

She wants to go home. Curl up and watch a movie.

For some reason, in her daydream she's added Jon, and he is there on the couch with her, laughing and watching _Modern Family_ with her.

The image makes Sansa smile.

* * *

Catelyn reams into him the minute she gets home.

He and Arya having been playing Call of Duty for most of the morning. It's not often that Jon gets to spend quality time with just Arya, no one else. Arya's always been his favorite. When he realized that she liked violence just as much as he did, Jon briefly thought of telling her of his _need,_ the tangible thing crawling under his skin, like a virus, wanting to kill.

She was too young, though. He would wait.

But for some reason, Catelyn and Sansa come home early from Church, and he and Arya don't have time to turn off Call of Duty when she comes inside. Suddenly, Catelyn pulls the plug on the TV and starts yelling at Jon.

Something's happened between her and Sansa. He can see it in Sansa's eyes.

"You've been away for a year," Catelyn snarls, "and that was _good_. We got on fine without you. And now you come back and start influencing my children again? Arya should be doing her homework, not killing imaginary people!"

Arya protests fiercely from besides Jon, "I _finished_ that stupid report, Mom! I asked Jon to play! Stop yelling at him!"

 _I had my hand in your daughter's cunt last night,_ is what he is bitterly thinking when Catelyn continues to yell at Jon. _Your perfect Sansa. She cried and moaned and called my name, you bitch. She got off in my car. Then she kissed me again, and I licked her off my fingers while she watched. She's sweet down there. And now she's mine. I made her come, and that's something you can't take away from me. Your perfect Sansa is_ mine _now._

With that, Jon gets up, drops his controller onto the couch, and goes to his room.

It's cold, and Jon has just adjusted the thermostat when he hears the door open.

"Jon?" Sansa asks, and he doesn't answer until she climbs down the stairs.

"I'm sorry." She says finally, and his back is still to her. "I told Mother that I wanted to come home early and she was in a bad mood for the rest of the ride home. I should have known she'd take it out on you.

Jon's back is rigid, and he feels every finger when Sansa puts her hand on it.

"I don't want to talk about your mother," Jon says finally, and his jaw hurts from where he's clenching it.

Sansa doesn't move. "What do you want?" she asks, and if it's meant to be coy, it falls flat.

He moves slowly, and now her hand is on his chest when he whispers "You" against her throat.

She moans and Jon knows that she's finally fallen. She's finally his.

She mumbles something that Jon can't hear, that almost sounds like " _Yes"_ but anything else is swallowed up when he kisses her.

  


  


Ramsay is a sick bastard.

Coming from an actual bastard, that's saying a lot.

But Jon knows too much about Ramsay, just like Ramsay knows too much about Jon. Ramsay is useful, though, for many things. Torture, for one.

Finding people, for another.

"We found Clegane," he tells Jon while they sit together in the café. He was hiding out in Africa. Near Ethiopia. Had a bitch with 'im and bodies buried all around his little cottage." There's a reverence in Ramsay's tone that suggests the bastard is enjoying himself. "Professional work, you know. Six feet under and all. We found the bodies of a UN investigator, an Ethiopian general, and a bunch of kids. The kids are his, by the way. He killed them right after the bitch gave birth."

"Where is he now?" Jon asks. Ramsay's grin gets bigger.

"The playground, of course."

The playground is the only place where Ramsay gets a free reign. He can cut up, carve and sever anything he wants there, and Ned Stark won't ask any questions.

"What will you do?" Jon asks.

Ramsay shrugs. "Play, of course. Reek thinks I should give him a new name. A _strong_ name."

Jon remembers Reek. Theon Greyjoy. Heir to the Pyke Crime family, until the Starks took them down. Then he was a prisoner who betrayed the Starks. Now he's not even a man.

"Robert Strong," Jon suggests, and Ramsay's eyes light up.

"Wonderful!" He claps his hands. "Snow, you're ruined in enforcement. You should join me and play. I'm sure dead old Daddy Stark would allow it. It will be _fun._ "

Jon smiles thinly. He doesn't doubt that. "I have all the fun I need, Ramsay. Don't worry, though. I'm sure I'll be sending a few more people your way soon."

Ramsay grins, and leans forward, "Speaking of, when's the last time you got it?"

Jon's mouth twitches into something almost like a smile, "Two weeks ago. Monday after Thanksgiving. Some chick named Lysa."

Ramsay tutts, "So long? You must be hungry."

"Why?" Jon asks, "Got someone for me?"

Ramsay pulls out a paper, "Oh, yeah."

* * *

  


Sansa is with Robb when Jon calls her.

"Got some time?" he asks conversationally, as if they're not doing anything wrong. Sansa smothers her blush.

"I might," she says, and she's lounging on the couch with Robb, but she can do that any time.

"Go to your room," Jon says, and Sansa climbs the stairs so quickly that the doesn't think anyone sees her leave.

Her room is empty and Sansa is confused for a moment until she sees a light spilling out of her bathroom. Jon is in there, she knows, and a giddy feeling rises in her chest.

But no, he's not.

"Jon?" she asks, just as a hand shuts her mouth.

It's Jon's hand, and Sansa can see him in the mirror as he leans her against the sink. The porcelain is cold on her hips and soothes the ache that's started in her thighs, at least until Jon presses his hips into Sansa's backside.

"Ohh," she moans under his hand.

His grin in the mirror is evil, and Sansa shudders as he leans down and nips at her shoulder.

"Lock the door," she pants once he removes his hand so he can hold both of hers against the sink while he pushes her even more up against the counter. "We don't want someone to come in-OH!"

Jon has bitten her through her shirt, and while it stings, Sansa has never felt something so good.

"No," he says, "It's more exciting this way," he whispers against her cheek, and Sansa sees him in the mirror, licking her earlobe. She shivers so violently she thinks he might let go of her. But he doesn't. He keeps talking, "Isn't it? Knowing that at any moment, Arya or Robb or Bran or your _mother_   could walk in and see you like this?"

With that, he nudges at her shirt with his nose until it falls over her shoulder. He bites it and this time there is nothing that shields her skin and Sansa cries out.

"Jon," she moans, "They'll hear."

He smiles against the bruise he's sucking into her shoulder, "You'll have to be quiet then."

And so, with her bedroom door wide open and her bathroom door unlocked, Jon slips his hands into Sansa's sweatpants and touches her.

It's so potent that at first Sansa has to cover her mouth, until Jon forces her hands down while his fingers plunge into her. Unlike before, he's fast and unforgiving, and his erection is pressed against Sansa's back, rubbing into her. Sansa can't bite her lips because it's going to leave a mark, so she keeps her mouth shut and watches.

In the mirror, she can't see what his hand is doing. But she does see his face, and how he's kissing and biting everything he can reach.

Finally, Sansa comes with a small shriek.

She's panting and there are tears in her eyes due to the effort to stay quiet, but Sansa can't anymore, and she's gasping for breath. Jon takes his hand out of her, and his fingers leave a sticky trail against her stomach and up to her chest, where he touches her under her shirt.  


"I can't-" she starts, and it sounds like she's just gasping.  


"Can't what, San?" he asks, using her childhood nickname.  


"Can't breathe," she tries to say, but it's not enough, and Jon touches her breast with his hand, still sticky from her, and it's the most erotic thing Sansa's ever seen, his hand moving under her shirt while she struggles to get breath. His eyes are on hers in the mirror.  


"It's okay," Jon says, and kisses her neck, the only place he hasn't bitten. He is still hard against her back, and Sansa slowly brings a hand between them so she can feel it, shakily.  


He groans.  


_It's okay,_ Sansa thinks. She doesn't believe it, but that's okay too.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon visits Ramsay's playground and Sansa learns something about Jon.  
> She gets more messed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry I haven't been updating recently! I have had a ton of tests and my finals are in like a week in a half. Still, enjoy this chapter!
> 
> Also, in response to a nasty review I got on chapter 3: If you find this story "sick", then stop reading. I tagged it as dark and Jon as dark!Jon and I even wrote half-sibling incest in the tags. At the beginning of chapter 1, I wrote that if this isn't your thing, don't read it. Seriously, don't leave horrible reviews. Just enjoy the story, or leave. It's fanfiction. It happens. If you don't like it, DON'T BE MEAN about it.

Jon knocked on the door three times before the music blasting out of it stopped blaring.

Dacey opened it. She looked vaguely sick.

"Sorry," she says. "I was psyching myself out."

Jon shakes his head, "That's fine. You ready?"

Dacey swallows, and nods. "Yeah. I am. Lets go."

It's a twelve minute ride, down to the second, but Dacey spends the entire time squirming.

"Have you ever-" she starts as Jon parks the car. "Y'know, gone inside?"

Jon nods. "Yeah. My father made me drop off a few guys back in college."

Dacey scoffs, "That's wrong. That he made you do it, I mean. Robb really has no idea, does he? How ugly this business can get? He's never been outside his little bubble."

Jon can hear the anger in Dacey's voice. Now he knows why. Dacey and Jon, as people lower down in Ned Stark's ranks, had to do the dirty work since high school. Jon remembers the first time he delivered a man to Roose, before Ramsay had gotten good at his job. It was sophomore year of high school, and he had driven for half an hour, skin numb with fear that he would be caught, hearing the thumps in his trunk, to Roose's old place. Now, though, with Ned's funding, the "Playground" had state of the art security, and now located not in Roose's basement, but in a warehouse in Queens.

"Yeah," Jon agrees, "Robb has no idea." In fact, Jon would wager to say that Robb really does know nothing of his father's operations. He keeps the books, he follows the money like a bloodhound. But he'd never had his fists bloodied like Jon's, never shot a man for the Family like Dacey has.

Then again, neither has Sansa, or Bran. Jon thinks that Arya will want in when she's older, and Rickon too.

Dacey takes a breath, squares her shoulders and grins cockily at Jon. A while ago, he would have taken that as the promise of sex. Now, he sees the steel under her eyes. "All right," she says. "Lets go see the bastard."

 

The Playground is the only place where Ramsay is free.

Jon knows Ramsay in and out of here, and outside, although he's an ass, he's tamer. Here, though, he's got no leash and he runs free, like a rabid dog.

When they make their way over to him, he greets Dacey first.

"Dacey, darling! Welcome to my playground. Come here and give me a hug!"

He doesn't wait for a reply, and embraces Dacey. Jon sees the blood under Ramsay's fingernails.

"You might want to clean that," he says. "You never know when the cops will pick you up, Ramsay."

Dacey pats Ramsay on the back stiffly and says, "Lets get on with it, shall we?"

Ramsay lets go of Dacey and licks his lips, "Yes, we shall. This way, Dace."

He pulls her by her shoulders and Dacey sends a warning look to Jon.

"Ramsay, let go of Dacey. She's already nervous enough."

"I am not nervous!" she protests, but Ramsay is already sliding away and grinning at her.

"Let's get the lights on in here," Ramsay says, and turns a switch.

Jon is next to Dacey and he hears her gasp.

Gregor Clegane is a mountain of a man. Even bloodied and tied up as he is, even through the glass, Jon can see the muscles, the body tattoos and the wild look in his eyes. He's a killer, loyal only to himself, and after that, loyal only to the Lannisters.

Dacey is almost shaking, and Jon suddenly sees why. While he's been admiring the blood and the cuts Ramsay used, he didn't see the skin.

There's a patch of skin missing from Clegane's chest where Ramsay's flayed him. Jon doesn't understand Ramsay's need to bring up medieval torture, but if it works, it works, right?

But Dacey is staring at the wall, where Ramsay has nailed up the skin. On it is a tattoo of a lion.

Jon coughs, "Thanks, Ramsay. We'll take it from here."

He finds Dacey's hand, gives it a squeeze that says, _Don't fuck up,_ and opens the door.

"Hello," he says finally.

He's admiring Ramsay's work. Jon remembers the first time he saw Ramsay's clumsy cuts, his imprecise lines. Once, he'd bled a man to death by accident. But now, it's clean. He can feel Dacey behind him.

_Don't let her see. She can't see that you like this._

Dacey steps forward, "What were you doing in Ethiopia, Mr. Clegane?"

Slowly, the mountain raises his head. "I'm Strong," he says, and his voice is weak. "Not Clegane. Robert Strong."

Jon interrupts. "What was Mr. Clegane doing in Ethiopia, Robert?"

The man closes his eyes, "I don't know. I'm not him."

Jon looks at Dacey. She huffs out a breath, and for the first time all night, comes into herself. "Sir," she says, and her voice is clipped, efficient. "Mr. Clegane told you, didn't he? What was he doing in Ethiopia?"

No answer. Dacey steps closer.

"What was he doing for the Lannisters?" She asks, and her voice is soft, so soft that Clegane opens his eyes and looks at her.

"The Lannnisters?" he growls, "The ones that put me here?"

Jon sees Dacey fight the urge to turn to him. If that's the story that Ramsay ran with, then Dacey can adapt to it.

"Yes. If you tell me what Mr. Clegane was doing in Ethiopia, maybe we can kill the Lannisters together."

Gregor-no, Robert now-nods slowly, "I think-"

"Go on," Dacey encourages.

"He was looking for someone," Robert Strong says, "and he didn't find them."

"Who was he looking for?" Dacey asks.

Strong thinks, "I don't remember," he says finally.

"Think," Jon says. "Think about it. Who was Clegane looking for?"

The man whispers, "Daenerys Targaryen."

 

"This was a test, Dace," Jon tells her after she throws up. "My father wants to see that you're strong enough to deal with Ramsay's work."

She wipes her mouth, "Well, it was a terrible test." She glares at Ramsay. "You're a little fuck up, you know that? What the hell were you doing with his _skin?_ "

Ramsay grins, "It's called flaying, Dacey. You should try it sometime."

She gags again, and finally gets up. "I'm going to the bathroom," she says weakly. "I'll be right back."

Ramsay waves at her.

"That was a bit too much for her first time," Jon says.

Ramsay turns to Jon with his eyebrows up. "Ha, you're funny. I didn't even know you were bringing her until an hour ago. Your dad texted me saying that I was having visitors for Robert Strong. That's all. He's testing her, isn't he?"

Jon nods, "He thinks that someone in his ranks is staging a takeover."

Ramsay giggles like a little girl. "Good for him. He won't suspect us. My father's made sure of that." Ramsay lowers his voice, "Karstark's joined our side."

Jon smiles tiredly, "Good."

Ramsay hands Jon a towel. "You've got some blood on your shoe," he says. "Robert must've dripped on you. Clean it up. You don't know if tonight's the night you get picked up by the cops, after all."

"I'm driving with a cop, for god's sake."

Ramsay laughs again, "Oh, yeah. Sometimes I forget Dacey's one of them."

"She's one of us, too."

Ramsay shrugs. "So who's this Daenerys chick?"

Jon doesn't answer. Dany's an acquaintance of his. A girl who the Lannisters took everything from. She's traveling in Africa now, trying to get some support for her own gang. Trying to come back and take her territory back from the Lannisters.

Instead, he changes the subject, "So, that paper you gave me..."

Ramsay's eyes light up. "Did you get to it yet?"

Jon shakes his head, "Nah, I'll take care of it tomorrow. But it's good information? I'm not going to walk into a trap, am I?"

Ramsay studies Jon closely before gritting out, "You're getting paranoid, Jonny. Don't trust your family, that's fine. But you should trust the people that are putting their asses on the line to get you in charge of the Stark Crime Family."

Jon closes his eyes. He can almost see it. Him in charge. Arya at his side. Sansa's there too, although she hadn't been there when he first started this. He sees Catelyn and Robb at his feet. "You're right," he says, "I'm sorry."

On their way out, Jon spots Theon Greyjoy. He looks small and scared.

* * *

Sansa feels it more than she hears it.

The door to her room opening. She's just about to flip to her back when his hands stop her.

"Don't," Jon whispers. "I just want you to sleep. Go back to sleep."

She can hear the shuffling of clothes as he gets undressed. Her eyes are closed tightly, her breathing is even, but she can feel her heart pounding.

"You were out late?" She asks instead of waiting for him to speak. Suddenly, fear grabs her chest. What if he was out seeing a girl? What if she's not the only one that he's with? What if he thinks she's a child and isn't interested any more? Sansa thinks it would kill her, to be so _with_ Jon, but not have him the way she does now. Lately, she's only been thinking about him. _Will he like this dress? Will he like how I look today. Does he think I'm a child? Does he think this is wrong?_

"Yeah," Jon says, "Running an errand."

Suddenly, the insecurity in her throat turns to real panic, and Sansa turns to him, just as he raises the covers to slip under with her. "An errand?" she whispers. "For Daddy?"

Jon kisses her, and even though she's still sleepy, she responds immediately. He's such a good kisser, Sansa thinks he's spoiled her forever.

But still, she breaks the kiss and waits for his answer.

"Yes," he says finally. "An errand for Father."

Sansa sits up, and the air in her room is cold, "Jon, you work for Daddy? But you're so young!"

Jon eyes her, and for the first time since that time in his car, Sansa realizes that she's on top of him, with her hand pressing down on his chest. The feeling gives her a thrill.

"I've been working for him since high school, San."

"You're joking," Sansa says once the information sinks in, "Jon, Daddy's a mobster! How could you have worked for him since high school? That's dangerous, Jon. He didn't make Robb-"

"Yeah," Jon says, and he sounds so tired that Sansa wants to kiss him. "He didn't make Robb do it. But I do."

There is silence in the room before Sansa feels brave enough to ask, "Did you ever kill anyone?"

Jon's eyes are dark, and he doesn't answer. It's all the answer Sansa needs.

"He made you kill for him?" she whispers.

"Yes."

She feels tears well up, "Oh, god. How could he- are you all right? Did you do anything tonight?"

"Nothing like that," Jon assures her, but Sansa can still feel a tear break free.

Jon is quiet under her palm, and Sansa brings her face down to his, "I'm so sorry," she says, and it's the most she can say to Jon, but he still laughs.

"Don't be, Sansa. I'm fine. See?" With that, Jon starts to tickle her.

She shrieks, and catches herself just in time. "Jon!" She reprimands, "What if someone heard?"

"Let them," he says, and finally, she dips down and kisses him.

"Turn over," she whispers, and she sees the curiosity and mischief in his eyes.

"What are you going to do?" he asks.

In response, Sansa just bites his lip.

Jon turns onto his stomach slowly, as if he's watching Sansa over his shoulder. He seems surprised when Sansa straddles his lower back and starts kneading at his shoulders.

"You're really tense," she explains.

Jon laughs into her pillow. "You have no fucking idea," he says, and Sansa bites his shoulder playfully.

For a few minutes, everything is fine. Everything seems normal. Like Jon's not her brother, like he's a boy that she can wake up with for the rest of her life.

Still, something is bothering Sansa. And when she's done, she lifts herself off his back and lies next to him.

"How did you do it?" she asks. "Your first kill? How did you do it? Daddy never talks about work."

Jon is breathing softly next to her, and he props himself up on his elbows. "I'm not sure you want to hear about it," he says.

Sansa can feel her breathing quicken as he slips a hand under her nightdress.

"I-" her breath hitches as his hand skims her thigh, "I do," she hears herself say.

Jon grins at her lazily as he brushes his fingers against her underwear, "You don't sound convinced."

She is already wet, and it's not just because of his touches. Sansa is ashamed of herself, but she can picture it, Jon's hands around someone's throat, and it's driving her crazy.

She feels Jon's hands still when he touches his hand and feels her, through her underwear. He is confused for a moment. "Sansa-" he whispers.

"Tell me," she says, and palms him through his boxers. "I want to know."

 Jon groans and pulls her hand away. "Later," he promises when she murmurs a protest. "First I want to see you."

He sits between her legs and pulls off her underwear, then pushes her nightgown up to her breasts. Sansa struggles to get up and take the gown off, but he stops her. "Shh," he says. "You want me to tell you, don't you?"

He bites her under her breast. Sansa stops breathing. She doesn't think she can any more.

He licks the bites until it only stings a little, and then kisses his way down to her navel.

"It was my first year in college," he begins. Sansa sees stars, and forces herself to breathe. She wants to hear this.

"Keep talking," she urges.

"It was a girl. Named Ygritte. She was a small time drug dealer, but she wasn't paying her share to Father." With his last word, he puts his mouth on her.

Sansa bites her thumb so hard that she tastes blood. Tears sting her eyes, and she can't breathe any more. It's almost painful, the pleasure she feels, and she's not sure what to think of it. In the cold air, her nipples are hard and the nightgown rubs against her skin so hard that she thinks it will rip her apart.

Jon stops licking at Sansa and whispers against her clit, "And he told me to go to her in the street," he licks, slow and long, "find her, go home with her."

She feels jealousy. Sansa is so far gone that she feels jealous of this girl, this _dead_ girl.

"And then," Jon says, as he adds a finger and curls it up. Sansa feels a scream building.

He licks again, and Sansa's eyes roll up. "I was with her, in the shower," he says when Sansa feels herself stiffening. It will embarrass her later, how fast she comes for him tonight. She peaks with a moan when Jon twists his tongue and his fingers inside of her. She can't breathe, is struggling to get a breath, when she hears him finish.

"I stabbed her," he whispers against Sansa's thighs. She can feel his beard rasp against her skin. "The blood swirled down the drain. Cleaned up the evidence."

Gasping, Sansa pulls Jon up to her and crushes him in a kiss. She knows they're crazy and going to hell for this, but she doesn't care, can't bring herself to care. "I love you," she whispers. "I love you so much, Jon."

It's true. She does love him. It's crazy, and she's going to hate herself in the morning for coming to this gruesome tale, but she loves him with everything in her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! I love reviews! They motivate me to update faster!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day before New Year's, and Jon has a talk with Ned. Sansa accepts that she's gone insane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks for being so patient. Lots of crap has been going on, but I'm back (YAY) and writing a new chapter!
> 
> Enjoy!

"You've been spending a lot of time with Ramsay Bolton lately," Father says, and Jon's fingers twitch.

"Yeah," Jon says, and relaxes into the couch. "I have. But you've been the one giving me the jobs. Spending time with him is a large part of what I need to do. Like with Dacey."

Father's eyes seem to glow in the light of the fireplace. "Jon, you're a perceptive boy. You know, don't you? Ramsay Bolton is not...right in the head. It's partly to do with his father, I suppose. Roose never did know how to separate his home and work lives." He looks like he wants to say more, but Jon can hear a wheeze rise in his father's chest.

Ned Stark, for most of Jon's life, seemed invincible. Now, he was still strong, still a leader and a force to be reckoned with. But even leaders get sick.

Jon is reaching for the tissues before his father even coughs. He holds it out to Father, and says, "Here. I'll go get you a glass of water."

His father's eyes are already closed as he leaves the study.

Jon knew, before anyone, that Father was getting sick. It would have been a point of pride, to know something before Catelyn, if it weren't so upsetting. Although Jon _hates_ his father sometimes, he loves him too. He hates it, but he does. He wants, more than anything, for Father to look at him the way he looks at Robb.

The way he looks at Sansa.

When he returns, the coughing fit is over, and the impeccable Eddard Stark is back. "So," he says. "I need to speak to you about what's going on in the organization."

Jon leans forward and braces his hands on his knees. This is the moment he's been waiting for.

"I think that the Boltons are planning something with the Dustins."

Jon maintains a neutral expression. It's one he's gotten good at.

"Why?" he asks, and he knows his father appreciates the short, to the point questions. If anything, Ned Stark has always liked honesty, cutting to the chase.

"Robb has been noticing some odd payments recently. The Dustins are paying more territory fees to the Boltons, and the Bolton armory was missing ten Uzis at last inventory. And three crates of ammo."

"What did Bolton say?"

Father waves his hands, "Oh, the usual. That the Dustins are raising arms against the Lannisters. I'd like to believe that, but the Freys say differently."

"Which Freys?" Jon asks, making a mental note to add them to the list of people he's been giving Ramsay. "There are so many of them, I loose count."

"Olyvar. You know, Robb's friend. He says that the Dustins want to take Baratheon property, and rile up tensions between me and Robert."

Jon nods. It's not the plan that Roose has outlined for him, but it's closer to the truth than he would care to admit. "Okay. Give me some time. I'll talk to Ramsay. Figure out which side is true."

His father nods and Jon sees him wilt into the cushions.

"Thank you, Jon." Ned's voice is soft, and Jon can feel his heart fluttering in anticipation. His father only takes on this tone of voice when he compliments him. "I know I can always count on you. You know what it means. To protect the family. Sometimes-" his father's voice almost breaks. Almost. "Sometimes I wonder if Robb truly knows what this all is. That it's not just something you can run from behind a desk."

_No, he doesn't. But don't worry, Father. He will._

 

Jon checks the address twice before he slips in through the window.

_Father Chayle_. It's the priest from that church Catelyn goes to. He's been a staunch supporter of the Starks, and his nephew is running for mayor next year. His nephew is a Stark supporter as well. And it's important that it stays that way.

So when Jon cuts the good Father's throat and rips up the bible and arranges the crime scene, he's sure to leave a few of Jaime Lannister's blond hairs around. He picked them up the night they stabbed him in the hand. And he plants a print- Lancel Lannister's, to be exact. The minute the mayoral candidate finds out that his favorite uncle was murdered by Lannisters, well...that's the minute the real power struggle begins, isn't it?

* * *

Sansa blinks at her sister. "You want a dress?" she asks, because she isn't really sure that she's heard right.

"Yeah," Arya says. "A pretty one. One that says 'I want you to take my virginity and throw it in the incinerator' and then makes a boy rip off my clothes. C'mon, I know you have one in here."

"What? Arya, you're _fifteen_ -"

"Sixteen!"

"Still! You shouldn't have sex!"

"Why not?" Arya grins at Sansa, and she's suddenly reminded of Jon's feral grin. It's the exact same expression, down to the raised eyebrow. "Just 'cause you're an unhappy virgin doesn't mean we all are. Or, I won't be after tonight."

"What's tonight?" Sansa asks.

"New years, duh. How's this one?"

Arya holds up Sansa's old dress, and it's black and short and lacy. She's never actually worn it outside, and Sansa has a feeling she's too tall for it now.

"It's, it's-"

"Great. I'll just ask Jon. He's cool with me and Gendry."

"Who is Gendry?" Sansa asks.

Arya huffs, "The boy I'm losing my V card to. Get with the times, Sans."

Arya regards the dress. "I'll probably have to rip it up a bit around the edge. Make it cooler. I'm taking it, all right?"

Sansa just nods. She doesn't have a voice left to protest.

 

Strangely enough, Sansa's crossed so many lines with Jon that she doesn't think of her virginity as another one.

She's dreamed about it. In the shower especially, Sansa's thought about Jon's hands around a girl's neck while she watched. It was the first time Sansa touched herself like that, and the insides of her mouth are still raw from biting her noises back. And she knows that she's insane. She knows it, and it tears her up inside.

_Incest,_ they call it online. Sansa's been researching. From the computer at the library in school, so no one knows it's her.

_It's a punishable offense. Especially if you're over eighteen. Worthy of jail time._

Sansa's eighteenth birthday is in March.

"Sansa?" her mother's voice calls. "Are you crying?"

She is, and she didn't even notice. "I think I'm _sick,"_ Sansa says.

Catelyn comes over and touches Sansa's forehead, "Aw, darling, your head is a little hot. Are you in pain? No? Well, if you don't feel well you don't have to come tonight. Sansa, what's wrong?"

She's crying harder, and clutches her mom's skirt. "Mommy? Do you love me?"

Her mother's face is surprised, "Of course, Sansa. Why would you even ask that?"

"No matter what?" She asks, insistent. "Do you love me no matter what I do or who I am?"

Her mother's face hardens, and for a moment, a terrible, horrible moment, Sansa thinks her mother knows, that she hates her, and there is no sound in the room but Sansa's hiccups. But then she follows her mother's eyes and sees Jon in her doorway.

"You all right, Sansa?" he asks.

She nods slowly. _Don't talk to me here, not in front of my mother. She'll know, Jon. She'll know._

"Do you need some water? Asprin?"

Catelyn stands. "She doesn't need you here right now. Go on and-do something. I'm sure you'll think of something."

The last thing she sees of Jon is his concerned face in the doorway before her mother closes the door.

* * *

"How's this look?" Arya asks.

She twists around in the mirror.

"Amazing. Gendry won't know what hit him," Jon laughs, and Arya grins at him.

"It'll be like watching a car crash," she agrees. "I think he's overwhelmed."

"With you or what it takes to keep your attentions?" Jon questions, and Arya sticks out her tongue. Then, she stops and thinks for a moment.

"Jon," she asks, "Do you like working for Dad? I know it's..." she searches, "violent."

Arya's always been like him, always curious. When she scraped her knees as a kid, she squeezed and kneaded at the flesh to make more blood flow. She got into fights at school, until she learned impulse control. Once, Jon overheard Catelyn saying _I don't know where she gets it. No one else was this hard as a kid_.

_I was,_ Jon wanted to scream. _You just never cared._

"I do, sometimes," Jon says, measuring Arya's reaction.

Arya bites her lip and nods.

Jon changes the subject, "So, how did you get out of the annual Tully family New Year's party? I know Sansa's sick, but you're fine."

Arya grins at him through the mirror, "I told mom I'm staying by Beth. And that I'm a lesbian. And that I'd come out of the closet to her father unless she let me stay out all night."

Jon laughs so hard that Bran bangs on the door to get him to stop.

 

"You all right?" Jon asks.

Sansa is in sweats and a t-shirt. He heard her earlier, asking her mother if she loved her. _It doesn't matter. Your mother won't be able to protect you from what's to come. I'm sorry, Sansa. Not for her. For you._

Sansa nods. "I'm good." She laughs and it's so fake she cringes.

Jon takes her laptop off her lap and kisses her. The bedspread crinkles under his hands.

"Jon," Sansa moans when he cups her breast. "I want to talk to you."

All right. Jon will give her that. He moves away, but not too far, keeping his hand on her knee.

Illusion of control. He's giving her that. Jon has been doing it for all his life. Giving Catelyn the illusion of control when he could snap her neck. Giving Father the illusion of control when he is four steps ahead.

Sansa smiles at Jon, a nervous smile. "I want to have sex," she says.

Not what he was expecting.

"Uh," is all Jon can say before his phone rings. He ignores it. "Are you sure? Sansa, you're seventeen and I don't wanna push..."

His ringtone starts again.

Jon turns the sound off without looking at the caller.

In return, Sansa leans forward. "I, uh, got a condom from Robb's room."

Jon can't help it. He smiles. "I have my own, you know."

Sansa laughs, but it's too breathy. She's nervous.

"Go get it then," she whispers.

Jon picks up his phone and almost runs to his room. The call was from Arya.

"Jon," the voicemail says. It's eerily calm, and that's what tips him off. Something is wrong. "Call me back. Please. It's important."

Just as he's about to call her back, she beats him to the punch. "What's wrong?" he asks immediately.

Arya's voice is cold and distant. "I need your help."

"Why? Arya, did Gendry do something?"

"What? No, I can handle that. I need you to pick me up. And, uh, help me with something. Jon, I think I just killed someone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read and review, please! Constructive criticism makes me happy!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon deals with Arya's "situation"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I've kept you all waiting so long for an update. My life has been really crazy lately, and not the good kind of crazy. In other news, happy pi day/year/once in a lifetime event.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr as "the-eagle-girl"

Sansa knew it.

She knew that once she pushed Jon this far-when she asked him to _fuck_ her for god's sake-he'd freak out.

It's all her fault. She's been pushing him this whole time, hasn't she? And now, now he sees her as she is- a whore, an incestuous freak. He left to get condoms, and now he's disappeared. Is he telling Father? Oh, god. He's going to tell Father, and then Mother, and then they'll all see how sick Sansa is inside.

_He doesn't love you._

_You disgust him._

_You've pushed too far._

Sansa feels tears drip down her nose.

It's all her fault.

_Beep_.

Sansa's phone dings.

It's a text. From Jon. Sansa grabs the phone so quickly it almost falls out of her hand. She's shaking, she can feel it.

_**Sansa** ,_ it reads, **_Arya is in trouble. I'm so sorry to leave you like this. I'll be back soon and we'll talk, ok?_**

She types back a response so quickly that she doesn't even overanalyze her message like she usually does.

**_All right. Love you._ **

_He's not mad_. That's the first thought to run through Sansa's mind. She hasn't screwed it up. It's still okay. It's still fine.

He's not mad.

* * *

"You're not usually this sloppy, Jon."

Those are Ramsay's first words when he walks into the room. It's a dump, a part of town that Jon would never usually step into. The boy on the bed, someone Arya's referred to as Jaquen, is lying on his back, his long hair obscuring his face. Jon sees what Ramsay means, though. He's far more thorough than this. The knife sticking out of his chest is a kitchen knife, taking from Catelyn's kitchen. Under the man's nails is the black lace from Arya's dress, and there are several marks on his body that indicate failed puncture wounds, where Arya tried to imbed the knife but slipped.

"I got out of control, Ramsay. Can you cover it up?"

Ramsay shoots him a look, "That's insulting. Of course I can." He grins. "I think I'll feed this guy to Reek. Did I tell you? Reek's discovered a liking for darker meat."

Jon shakes his head. "Make sure your father doesn't hear anything about this. Just between you and me, Ramsay. Capise?"

He shoots Jon a sideways look. "Got it." He's suspicious, Jon knows. Ramsay's always been upfront with Jon, always letting him know when something was wrong.

Instead of demanding answers, though, he says, "Dacey and I have spoken with Barbrey, my father, and Walder Frey. They're in for the massacre with the Baratheon and Lannisters. We've got everything in place. You sure about Olyvar Frey, though? Walder won't like that."

Jon straightens, and with one last look at the body, says, "Olyvar is too loyal. Besides, he notices things. We need my father and Robb to be ignorant."

Ramsay grins and winks at him. "Always hated that kid. I'll sleep better knowing that the kiss-ass is six feet under."

Jon nods and takes a step to the door.

"Oh, and Jon?"

He stops, not looking back.

Ramsay's voice is low from behind him, "We learned to carve up bodies together, remember? I know you didn't kill this guy. So, who are you covering for?"

Jon doesn't move. "Careful, Bolton. You shouldn't ask too many questions. You know what happened to your older brother."

Ramsay's laugh follows him out the motel.

 

"What the hell was this?" he asks, when he gets in the car.

Arya is crouched in the back of the car, and she says, "Nothing, Jon. I just needed your help."

"Why did you kill him?"

Jon's not sure what to feel right now. On the one hand, this proves everything he's ever thought about Arya. She's like him. She's exactly like him. On the other hand, if Jon has to clean up after every mess Arya makes, someone's going to notice. And to think, he's left Sansa behind to dump a body...

"I wanted to. He hurt Gendry."

Jon lets out a laugh. "So you killed a guy because he beat up your boyfriend. Try again, Arya."

"Fine." Arya huffs and climbs into the front seat. "I killed him because I wanted to see what it felt like."

Jon tightens his hands on the wheel. "And...?"

Arya looks unsure. Her eyes are full of something, and Jon can't put a name on it. But he knows the feeling. Exhilaration, shame, excitement, arousal, all in one. He feels it every damn time he kills. When Arya does speak, it's in a whisper. "It's everything I thought it would be," she admits. "I felt alive, Jon. I've never felt this way before. It's like, like I've never...I've never lived before tonight, and killing Jaquen is the first time...I don't feel the emptiness, not anymore."

Jon studies her. "But you will," he says, and it's a statement of fact, because he _knows_ this feeling. He's had it before. He still does.

"You'll feel it again, Arya. Until you need to kill again. You need to learn to control yourself."

"But I _can't_ ," Arya says, and the tears well up. "I tried so hard, Jon."

Jon pulls over and gathers his little sister into his arms as she starts to shake. "You'll be okay," he whispers into her hair. "You'll be okay, eventually. I went through the same thing, Arya. I know what it's like. And you will be able to control it. It's going to become a part of the game, you see? You starve that hunger inside of you, until you can't take it anymore, and then you let it all out. And once you do, you feel everything even more. It was the same for me. You'll be fine, Arya. I'll teach you to be fine."

* * *

Sansa is barely awake when Jon crawls under the covers with her. "Happy New Year," he whispers into her throat.

"Happy New Year," she whispers, and kisses him so hard she forgets that only an hour ago, she was panicking. He smells like the snow and the wind. He smells like Jon, and Sansa inhales deeply. _I can't lose him. I won't._ "What happened?"

Jon's voice is hushed as he starts lifting her nightdress. He kisses her neck and shifts so he's kneeling above her. "Arya freaked out. She called me to take her home. She wanted to lose her virginity to her boyfriend."

"I know. Did she?"

"In a way," Jon mutters, and Sansa strokes his forehead before kissing him. For some reason, she's relieved that Arya didn't go all the way. Not before she goes all the way with Jon.

"Are you all right?" Sansa's not even sure why she asks, but something seems...off.

Jon parts her thighs and pulls her underwear off. She can see the glint of his teeth in the darkness.

"I'm great," he says, and a shiver rips through Sansa at his tone. "Now let me make you feel great too."

He keeps his promise, and when Sansa gasps his name, he kisses her thigh and says, "I know, sweetheart. I know."

She's never felt so loved in her life.

Happy New Year, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to yell at me for my neglect. My followers on tumblr already started. 
> 
> Reviews are always welcome!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon take the next step, but not in an expected way. Arya revels in her new sense of power. Lots of parallels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK before everyone kills me for such a late update, I've been really sick these past few months. I'm better now, hopefully, but I haven't been able to write for a while. That's gonna change, though. 
> 
> As an apology, I've included an Arya POV

Jon has picked out the perfect place.

Not the house. It's too full all the time. He wants a place where he and Sansa can be alone afterwards, where he doesn't have to run out immediately, for fear that someone might find them together. Sansa's in a delicate place with him, and if he leaves her right after they have sex for the first time, he knows she will feel cheap, and start doubting herself. Jon doesn't want her to feel like he is using her. He knows that he is, sometimes has to remind himself that Sansa is a tool, an instrument in his revenge against his father. Just last night, he buried his face in her cunt and thought, _Not so perfect now, huh, Sansa?_ But _damn_ , she had felt perfect around him, crying his name into her covers, pushing against him, pulling his hair.

Not a hotel, either. Hotels have cameras, and people might question why Sansa Stark spent the night in a hotel with her half-brother. So Jon's had to cross that off the list, even though he's really been dying to try out the Master Suite at the new Ritz.

But this is perfect. It's Theon Greyjoy's old apartment, and Jon's taken ownership of it, kept it clean. It's not beautiful, a little too sparse for Jon's taste, but it will do. And it's going to be exactly what Sansa needs.

If Jon is perfectly honest, he needs this as well. Something to take his mind off of the Arya shitstorm, off of Olyvar Frey, who, this time tomorrow, will be dead. So when he picks up Sansa from school, he says, "Tell Father that you're sleeping at Margaery Tyrell's house tonight."

Sansa licks her lips, leans in and communicates her enthusiasm to him with a kiss.

They have a routine now, and Jon has always thought that routines are for old men with no balls. But this one with Sansa, this secret, lights him up like a Christmas tree. He detours on their way back from her school, pulls off the road and for twenty minutes, gets to make out like a teenager in the back of his car. Jon tells himself that it's for Sansa, that it's so she feels like he's paying attention to her. But he knows, now.

He needs her too.

This time, though, their routine is interrupted by Jon's phone. Ramsay is calling, and this close to a kill, Jon doesn't want to leave him hanging. "One sec," he whispers into Sansa's mouth, and answers the phone.

"What's up?"

"Olyvar is in the wind," Ramsay says, and Jon sits up straight. Sansa looks at him in alarm.

Jon opens the car door so she can't hear him. The snow crunches under his feet.

"How?" he demands.

"He saw me coming and split. I don't know how he knew."

Jon grits his teeth. "Deal with it, Ramsay. I'm busy today."

* * *

Arya's got her jeans pooled around her thighs and Gendry's fingers inside of her when her phone rings. He swears, and Arya bites his lip before answering.

"Yeah?" she says, and Gendry starts moving his fingers again, in lazy slow circles.

"It's me," the girl on the other end says.

Arya tilts her head back and watches Gendry through half-lidded eyes. He's annoyed that he doesn't have her full attention. _Well,_ Arya thinks, _he's gonna have to earn it._

She takes a pull on the cigarette she and Gendry have been smoking while they got each other off. It burns, but Arya feels almost sophisticated, or as sophisticated as it gets jacking off with your almost-boyfriend in his garage. "So?" she says.

"I've got the coke. You want it, you gotta pay. And you didn't show up to get it today."

Arya laughs, and for a moment forgets why, when Gendry starts biting her neck. "I don't want it any more." She thought that coke would help her control her...needs. Now that Jon's agreed to help, Arya has a feeling that she won't need it any more. "And I didn't show because I decided to get off instead." Gendry scoffs at that.

The girl on the other end sounds agitated. Arya bets she's a junkie herself. "Look, I paid for this. Now, you gotta or else..."

"...what?" Gendry's fingers increase in pace, and Arya has to catch her breath. She inhales the smoke. It doesn't get better than this, she thinks. The sensation of lust, relief, the smoke, the power running through her. Gendry's fingers speeding up inside of her, the smell of sweat. There is nothing better. The only thing that could make it any hotter is blood, on my hands.

She laughs into the phone again, widens her thighs, "You'll find me? You're a little weasel. No one will help you look. And we've never even met. You don't know who I am, bitch. Don't even try to threaten me."

With that, she ends the call and lets Gendry finish her off.

When they're both done, Gendry pulls on his grease stained shirt. Arya stays put, on the tarp he threw on the ground before he threw her down, and stretches, watching his watch her through lidded eyes.

"Weasel?" he asks, his blue eyes latching onto her chest. Arya didn't wear a bra today, and she knows he knows it.

"Just a junkie. Not someone anybody would miss." Arya grins, and shoots Weasel a text.

 _Sorry. I do want it. Please meet me tonight @ the park. I'll bring double_.

She grins up at Gendry. "Give me a napkin. I have to clean myself up."

* * *

Sansa has never felt this excited.

Jon went out of his way, and he seems almost nervous, once they were both in the apartment. He said it belonged to a friend, and Sansa can see touches of Jon in the furniture. There's an armchair in the living room that looks like Father's, and the bedspread is blue, just like in Jon's room. It even smells like him, and she can tell he's been cleaning up.

On the table, there are two candles lit, and Sansa's favorite salads and sushi.

"Aw," she says, and turns to kiss him, "you hate sushi!"

Jon puts his arms around Sansa and pulls her to him. "Yeah," he nips at her nose, "But you love it. And I have chicken in the oven."

Sansa rolls her eyes at him, "You know, you act like you're too manly for this stuff, but inside I think you're just a romantic at heart."

Jon raises his eyebrows, and Sansa wants to pull him to her right there and then, but a noise makes her stiffen.

"Is someone at the door?" she asks, and Jon reacts immediately, pushing her at the kitchen.

"Stay here," he whispers.

Sansa hears him open the door. The voice is familiar, and it takes a minute for her to place it.

"What are you doing here?" Jon asks, and she can hear a thud.

"Did you send Ramsay after me?" the other man sounds hysterical. "Did you?"

"Olyvar, calm down. How did you know I'd be here?"

"I fucking followed you!"

Sansa gulps in a breath. She showed up before Jon, and let herself in with the key he gave her. Olyvar hasn't seen her yet.

Just as she finishes her thought, Olyvar says, "Is someone fucking here? Are you on a _date?_ Your little fucking animal comes after me and you're having dinner with a girl?"

"Don't you dare," Jon says, and there's a crash. Sansa stifles a sound and looks around. There's no where to hide.

Suddenly, there's a shadow in the doorway, and Sansa looks up.

Olyvar, her brother Robb's best friend, stands there, blood dripping on his shirt. His nose looks like it's broken. "Sansa? What the hell are you--"

There's a sickening crack from behind Olyvar, and before Sansa knows anything, Jon is standing above her with the heavy silver candle holder.

Without looking down at Olyvar, Sansa knows that he's breathing his last. There is a soft gurgle, and wet noises from the ground beneath her. But she can't look away from her half-brother, who won't meet her eyes.

"Jon?" she asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, please leave your reviews! I love feedback, and I would love to know what you guys thought of Arya's POV in particular. Something I should continue?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Olyvar weren't already dead, Jon would kill him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa comes into her own a little, and then promptly freaks out.

If Olyvar Frey weren't already dead, Jon would kill him again. His head has a dent in it, and Jon is seeing red and all he can do is look at the blood as it makes its way slowly to Sansa.

"Jon," she says, and the voice registers in his mind dimly, "Jon, what's going on?"

 _I killed Robb's best friend_ , Jon thinks. He can't get the words past his mouth. _I knew I was going to do it, but I didn't want you to see._

"He attacked me," Jon finally says, speaking slowly. "And he came in here. I reacted."

It's the first time that Jon hasn't thought every detail out. He hasn't planned the execution. He hasn't _enjoyed_ this kill. And he doesn't want to look at Sansa. He knows what she'll say. He knows what her eyes will say. He can hear her sniffling, and can imagine the tears falling down her face.

Finally he looks down at her. She's sitting on the floor. The edge of her nice white dress is bloody, and the stain is spreading. Jon itches to point it out to her, but decides that it's better that she hasn't noticed yet. There's blood on her face, from the splatter that Olyvar's head made when Jon hit it with the candle holder. There are unshed tears in her eyes, but she picks up her sleeve and wipes them before they fall.

"What do we do?" she asks softly.

Jon can feel it, the physical piecing together of his mind. Within a second, he's back in his element, gotten his bearings. It's like a livewire, how fast his brain is working now. Still, he lets her speak.

"We can't let anyone know," Sansa continues. She gets to her feet shakily, and reaches over Olyvar's body to cup Jon's cheek in her hand. He leans into her touch, just a little. "Daddy will...he won't understand. And he'd be suspicious of us. Of what we're doing. We need to hide the body."

Jon can taste blood on Sansa's lips when he kisses her. It's hard, more of a tangle of teeth and bites than the kisses he usually gives her, but Jon's always rough like this after he's killed someone. "I'll take care of it," he whispers. "You go shower. Get changed."

Sansa looks dazed, and spends a few seconds trying to breathe again. "No," she says, and it's almost too much for Jon. There's blood on his hands, blood on her face, and Olyvar's body on the floor between them. "We'll do it together, Jon."

She steps over Olyvar and holds onto Jon. It's only then that he hears her sobbing.

* * *

Sansa can't look at Olyvar's body any more.

Jon's efficient, rolls Olyvar onto a plastic tablecloth from the pantry, one used for parties. He gives Sansa the job of mopping up the blood while he--God, Sansa can't even think about what he's doing with the body in the bathroom. He'd only come back once, for a big knife, several plastic bags, and a bottle of bleach from under the kitchen sink.

Sansa reminds herself that he's done this before, and that it'll be okay.

That's her last thought for a long time before she loses herself to the mind numbing task of ridding the floor of evidence. Move the mop along the floor. Try not to spread the blood. When the mop gets too dirty, squeeze it out into a bucket. When the water becomes too red, dump it in the sink, fill up the bucket, pour in powder, repeat. Once the blood is mopped up, Sansa sees red between the cracks of the tiles. When Jon comes out of the bathroom an hour later, she's still on her knees, scrubbing at the floor with a sponge.

"Sansa, Sansa, shhhh," he says, and gathers her into his arms. She's shaking violently. Dimly, she realizes that her knees hurt. Jon's shirt is stained with blood and bleach, and he smells like chlorine, but Sansa still buries her head in his neck and tries to breathe in his scent.

"How will his family know? That he's dead?" Sansa whispers, voice trembling.

"They won't. They may never know." Jon sounds apologetic.

She nods into his shirt. It's an acceptable tragedy if it means she gets to stay with Jon for a little while longer. "What did you do with the body?" She asks.

"You don't want to know," Jon says.

Sansa pulls back and looks him in the eyes. he sighs, "Pulled out his teeth. Cut off the fingers. Set up a bleach bath so his body becomes hard to ID."

"Daddy taught you," Sansa says. "This is his fault. It's all his fault."

"Sansa..." Jon begins, voice soft.

"Why else would Olyvar be here?" Sansa demands, voice rising, "He was probably spying for Daddy! He knows _something_ Jon. We can't let him keep us apart."

"I won't!" Jon swears, his voice hard. "He doesn't know, Sansa. I don't know why Olyvar was here, but it's not because he was working for you father. Olyvar works for Robb."

 _Worked for Robb,_ Sansa's head corrects. The voice sounds suspiciously like her mother.

"Promise me, Jon," Sansa begs. "Promise me that they won't keep us apart. I love you. Promise me."

Jon nods, "I promise, Sansa."

* * *

There's so much more to do, like clean the floor some more, finish with the body. Call in Ramsay to dispose of it or feed it to Theon, for all Jon cares. But Jon can do that in the morning. For now, he holds Sansa in his arms and promises that no one will ever tear them apart.

Jon intends to keep that promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, a situation Jon hasn't planned for. He's a little dazed in the beginning of this chapter, so we get to see Sansa shine.
> 
> Please review!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa deals with the fallout of her actions

Sansa can feel herself shaking.

 _Stop it, you stupid girl_ , she whispers to herself, in a voice sounding suspiciously like Joffrey's.  _If you're shaking, he'll know something is wrong_. So instead, she looks at the wooden paneling of the door in front of her. It's a dark cherry wood, and Sansa touches her fingers to it, feeling the grains running down. She's leaned against the wall, face pressed against the cool wood to calm the fever in her brain.

 _He doesn't know. He can't know._ She and Jon had been so  _careful,_ Jon had dressed her in dark sweats and tucked her hair into a cap, had tied a sheet around her chest so no one could see she was a woman. They had driven for two hours, dumped Olyvar's body in three different ponds, in three different parks upstate. They had shredded Sansa's bloody dress and burned it, bleached the heavy silver candle stick and dropped it off in a church's charity box. Olyvar's teeth and fingers Jon had kept, promising to get rid of them soon, that he would feed them to dogs if he had to. 

But still, here she was. 

The door opened, and Sansa suppresses a shiver. Dacey Mormont steps out, her face carefully blank. Jon is behind her, and his eyes meet Sansa's. "San? What are you doing here?"

"Daddy said he needed to see me," Sansa breathes out a sigh of relief. Jon was here. Everything would be okay. 

Jon's knuckles brush hers as he leaves, shooting her a careful look. 

Sansa squares her shoulders, and walks into her father's office. 

Mother is there too. 

"Good morning," Sansa chirps, determined to be cheerful, and not suspicious. If she acts like something is wrong, they'll know. She can feel the heat of Jon's fingers brushing hers, and takes strength from that.

Her mother smiles grimly back, but it's her father who looks away.

"Sansa," he says, "We're sending you to your aunt Lyanna for a few weeks. You, and the younger ones. Just until some things quiet down."

_No._

Sansa barely processes what her father has said. Aunt Lyanna? Their aunt Lyanna who manages the drug trade from California? The same aunt that was so drunk on her last visit that she puked all over Sansa's favorite shoes?

And Jon. She would be away from Jon.

"No," she says. "Daddy, no."

Her father finally looks at her. "It's not safe here."

"Why not?" she asks hotly. "It's never been safe, Daddy. You're a mobster. I know that. Everyone knows that. Lyanna is a drunk, and she's always got some weird, creepy boyfriend hanging around. I wouldn't feel safe with her. I'm staying here. You can send Arya and Bran and Rickon, but I'm not going."

"Sansa..." her mother says, "Something's happened."

Her father shoots her mother a sharp look, but Catelyn Stark just shakes her head at him. "She's not a child, Ned. She can read the news. She's going to find out soon enough." Her mother meets her eyes. "Father Chayle was murdered, Sansa. By the Lannisters. And now you're brother's friend Olyvar is missing."

Sansa feels a faint pulse of guilt clawing at her throat, and pushes it down. She doesn't give a damn about Olyvar Frey. He's dead. 

"I'm not going," she says. "It's my senior year. You can't just ask me to leave during the middle of my senior year."

Her father laughs disbelievingly. "Your safety is more important than your schooling--" 

"If you truly thought that, Daddy, you would have gotten out of the family business long ago. I'm staying." This is the first conversation that Sansa's ever had with her father about the business. She can see on his face that he's shocked at her. In their house, she's always  _known_ , all of them have. But never has she boldly called her father a mobster, never has she called him out on it. She can feel the anger in her words. 

 _He made Jon do it, his dirty work. And now he's trying to pull us apart._  

"Sansa--" her mother gasps, taken aback. "You will listen to your father!"

"I'm eighteen in a month," Sansa says. "I'm capable of making my own decisions. If you send me to your sister, I'll just get a bus ticket right back here, I'll stay with Margaery until my birthday. You can't keep me there. I hate Aunt Lyanna, and I won't go."

And neither will Arya, Sansa knows. That's why they've called them in separately, so that they can't present a united front. 

"What about Benjen? Would you stay with him?"

Her father's grasping at options. He would never send her to Uncle Ben. 

"No. I'm not going." Sansa crosses her arms for emphasis.

She's won, she can feel it. They might argue a bit more, but both Daddy and her mother know that neither Benjen or Lyanna are good guardians. They've panicked, but now Sansa's sure of it; she's staying put.

* * *

"Hey Dany," Jon says. Their connection is bad, but through the pixels he can see white-blonde hair, dark violet eyes and a very violent looking sunburn.

Daenerys Targaryen smiles tightly at him. "Hey Jonny. Long time."

"You look like shit," he says. "You're not made for that kind of weather. How's Kenya?"

Dany's jaw clenches, "How did you know where I am?"

"The Lannisters sent Gregor Clegane after you. He knew you were on the move to Kenya, and was packing up to go after you when I got to him."

The connection gets better for a moment, and he can see her eyes widen. "You've got him? Is he dead?"

"No," Jon says bluntly. "But Ramsay has him, so you're safe from that threat, for now."

Her shoulder's sag with relief, and her eyes close. Through the video chat, Jon can hear cars honking and people shouting.

"The Lannisters?" She asks. 

 "They're not dead yet. Jaime Lannister's hurt, though. Stabbed in the hand. They had to cut it off."

The connection is on the fritz, and he can see Dany's face for only a few more seconds before it goes hazy again. He waits until the screen rights itself, and watches as Dany regains some of her composure. 

"I'm here for you, Dany," he says. "We're taking care of each other, all right? Stay safe."

"Thank you," she whispers. "Thank you so much, Jon."

When he ends the video call, Dacey slides her eyes over to him. She's been pretty busy looking through the papers his father's given them, but he knew she was listening. It doesn't matter. He wanted her to hear.

"You're doing it for her?" Dacey asks. "All of this? For some Targ girl?"

Jon scoffs. "No. But it's easier if she thinks we're on the same side. And my father and Robert Baratheon want her dead, so it's in my interests to keep her alive. She's got lots of support now."

Dacey shrugs, "As long as you know what you're doing." She looks down on the paper again. "So Father Chayle...that was Ramsay, right?"

"It was me," Jon says softly. They're in Dacey's apartment, and he did a sweep for bugs last night, when Dacey was on patrol. He knows it's safe to speak. "Ramsay was dealing with Clegane."

Dacey nods. "And now his nephew is the shoo-in for mayor. He's going to hate the Lannisters. When you come into power, he's going to support you wholeheartedly." Dacey speaks with the voice of someone who feels like they understand everything now.  _You don't_ , Jon says.  _You understand nothing, Dace. You know nothing._

"Maybe," Jon says. 

"And Olyvar Frey? Was that you or Ramsay?"

Jon kept his face confused. "I don't know what you're talking about. We don't know where he is."

Dacey searched his face. "Fine."

"I know you liked him--"

"It's fine, Jon. He ran. Men run away all the time."

* * *

Arya's stomach is grumbling when Jon finally pulls up. She jumps in. He's got a burger and a soda waiting for her. 

"I've been waiting forever," Arya snaps, but takes the burger all the same. 

"Lesson one: Patience." Jon's hand flicks her ear. "And you have to get good at waiting. Waiting is part of the fun."

"If you say so," Arya says, but her heart is already pounding, her foot tapping. She's like a junkie, waiting for her next fix. "Are we going to kill someone today?" she asks. Jon shoots her a sharp look. 

"We're getting rid of evidence," he says instead. 

They pull up to a Salvation Army. Jon pulls out a bag of clothes and dumps it in Arya's lap. "A man died in these clothes last week," he says. "I've washed them three times with industrial strength detergent, and added a couple of my old t-shirts, and some of Bran's old sneakers. You're going to walk into that store and donate all the clothes."

"Why not just burn them?" Arya asks. 

Jon's hands clutch the steering wheel. "Because that's suspicious. Burning leaves evidence--ash, stuff that doesn't burn completely, some rags left over. In a week, some homeless guy will be wearing these clothes, or some hipster kid's gonna find Bran's sneakers and try them on. No one looks for evidence if someone else is wearing it, someone with no ties to a crime. And if they do, then the blame shifts on them, not you. Now go in there and donate the clothes, and then I'll show you how to get rid off teeth and fingers."

Arya gets out of the car.  _There's a lesson in all of this,_ she reminds herself.  _Jon is teaching me._  

He's the only one who helps.

Later, Arya's heart starts to pound again, blood roaring in her ears, when Jon takes her to the park and shows her how to burn the fingerprints off of severed fingers, how to hide the bones in the water, how to plant a dead man's teeth miles apart, one in a dumpster, one in a pile of bricks, one in the back of a man's truck. 

 _I'm going to be just like you_ , she thinks, and when she goes home, she's practically skipping.

* * *

Jon finds her in the bathtub. She's turned on her shower to the highest setting, and the water pressure hides the tears. Sansa's sitting in the tub, curtains drawn around her, when Jon comes into her bathroom. 

She sees Olyvar's face for a moment, then Jon's face, splattered with blood as he stared down at her. But then, Jon strips out of his clothes and comes into the shower and cradles her face in his hands, and Sansa sobs into his chest, not caring if her mother hears, not caring if her father hears.

"Shhh," Jon coos. Sansa buries her face in his neck, smelling him before the water washes away his scent. He's locked the bathroom door, so Sansa doesn't fear taking him in her hand, stroking him until he's gasping against her. For a few minutes the only sounds are the water and his breathing, the only feelings are Jon and the heat surrounding her. Sansa's still kneeling in the tub when Jon's legs tremble and he sits back, head falling against the back of the tub. It's then that Sansa leans over him, settles her legs on either side of his hips, and starts to lower herself.

"Sansa," he groans. "We don't have a..."

"We do," she says, and gropes behind him, on the shampoo shelf. She brings out the condom she left there, and Jon makes a desperate noise in his throat.

Her hands are shaking and the packet is slippery, but together they get it open. 

"Sansa," Jon says, "We don't have to do it here. Your bed..." but that's all he gets out before Sansa lowers herself, slowly, slowly, her eyes open and on his.

It hurts, Sansa acknowledges. But she's warm, and those are Jon's arms gripping her hips, and even as her hands scramble for purchase in the wall behind his head, she can feel him inside her, where he belongs, where she wants him always, _no matter_   _how much it hurts._

She's aware of it before she can even hear it over the roaring of the blood in her head, the pounding of the water on her back. She can feel him as he kisses her shoulders, her breasts, her chest, anywhere. He's saying her name, over and over, brokenly.

"Sansa," he whispers. "Sansa, please."

 His hand is on her clit, and the other one is in her wet hair and it's all she can do just to keep moving. But she does. "Jon," she whispers. "Don't let them take me away. We're in this together."

"Never," he whispers. "You're staying right here. We're going to be together."

She nods, and screws her eyes shut. They're being quiet, so when she comes, she has to bite his shoulder hard to stop the scream. He shudders against her, and for a brief moment, Sansa is safe, she's loved, and she forgets what they've done. When her eyes open, her brother is staring at her, his wet hair plastered to his forehead and covering his eyes. Sansa pushes it away and kisses his brow. Somewhere downstairs, her little brothers are watching cartoons, Arya is on the phone with her boyfriend, and Robb is flirting with Dacey. Somewhere, her parents are lying together, worried for their children's safety. 

Sansa lifts herself off of Jon, but kisses his lips, his chin, his jaw, until she reaches his ear. "I want you to spend the night with me," she whispers. "I want to do that again. And I want you to be there when I wake up."

"Sansa," Jon says softly, and she thinks for a moment that he's going to refuse. But instead he helps her to her shaky feet and turns off the water. Pulling out her towel, he dries her off slowly, and then wraps her in her robe. "I'm going to dry off, then come out," he says. "Go lie down."

Sansa does. And she waits for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! I love reviews!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Catelyn have never liked each other.
> 
> In which their differences come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually switch around POV's a little, between Jon, Sansa and Arya. However, this chapter is mostly Jon's POV, since it seemed to flow more organically than if I'd chopped it up into smaller parts.

Jon and Catelyn have never liked each other. Jon is the living, breathing proof of Ned Stark's infidelity, of course, but it's always been more than that. For some reason, Catelyn could never forgive Jon for being better than Robb at the family business, for being Arya's favorite. 

Jon's heard the story of his conception in bits and pieces from his Aunt Lyanna and his Uncle Ben while they were drunk off their rockers on a Christmas when he was thirteen. To hear them tell it, it was the night that Catelyn and his father had gotten into a big fight. Lyanna and Ben either didn't really know what the fight was about, or refused to tell Jon, but that barely mattered. The fight ended with Ned Stark storming out, staying out all night, and then coming back to his wife with his tail between his legs. Eight months later, while Catelyn was nine months pregnant and ready to burst, his father brought him home.

All Jon remembers of Catelyn from those first few years was the hate. She hated him, and as a child, he didn't know what that meant. Since there had been so few women at his house, he thought that was just how women behaved. They were all cold, they all called little children "maggots" and "stupid baby" under their breath. Robb had little interest in his mother, and would rather play outside with Jon, so Jon didn't really notice how differently the two were treated, not nearly until Sansa and Arya were born.

He'd never hated her before, only been indifferent. Once Jon saw that this wasn't normal, that Catelyn Tully-Stark was hateful only to him, he started to hate her too.

She's nursing a glass of brandy when he gets home, sitting in his father's chair, her eyes bright with tears. When Ned had collapsed hours before, coughing up blood and wheezing, Catelyn had barely been able to move. Jon had glared at her over the dinner table, gathered his father in his arms, and barked out orders to Robb to take care of the younger siblings while they went to the hospital. 

She hiccups now, and manages a grimace. "What are you doing here?" she snarls, "You don't belong in here. This is Ned's room."

It's 3AM, Jon notes, and makes his way to the safe where father keeps his notes. "Dad asked me to get some things for him," he says. "The doctors have stabilized him, but he's asked me to take care of his security detail while he's in the hospital and take care of operations."

Catelyn crosses the room so quickly, Jon barely sees her in the dark until she shoves him. "Get away!" she screams. "Robb will do that. Robb is going to do that for his father. He's in charge while Ned's ill,  _not you_!"

He hears silence, then a crash of footfalls coming down the stairs. Arya, no doubt. Still, Catelyn doesn't notice, or doesn't care, and shoves him off again. "This is  _Robb's_ job," she hisses. "Stop taking it away from him."

"Oh, yeah?" Jon breathes back, and catches her wrist as she tries to shove him again. He pushes it away. "Where is he, then? Why didn't he run to the hospital the second after me? Why didn't he come back here with Dad's instructions instead of me?" He leans closer, even though his body is screaming for him to run away from this hateful woman. "Where is he, Catelyn? Why isn't he here? His car is missing." Jon thinks he knows where Robb is, with that girlfriend of his, seeking the comfort of her arms rather than the cold uncertainty of the house.

The silence is so loud that for a moment, Jon thinks he's calmed her down. He turns to the safe, to get the personnel files or to do something with his hands, when suddenly her nails rake down his face.

There's a stinging pain near his left eye, and he can hear Arya screaming at her mother, holding her away from Jon. There are more shouts, and Hullen, the security for tonight, runs into the room. A few seconds later, Sansa and Rickon run in as well. All of them see a screaming Catelyn, clearly drunk, and Jon, standing so still he thinks he's not even breathing, blood pouring down his face. 

"You're poison," Catelyn is screaming. "You're sliding into my husband's heart and poisoning him against me. _Robb_ is his real son, and you want everything that he has, you've always been jealous of him. You're poison, you're _poison!_ "

Jon's heart is beating faster, and the ends of his fingers feel cold and numb.  _I want to kill her_ , he thinks.  _She deserves to die._

It's then that he feels Sansa's hand on his face. "Mama, look what you did," Sansa says, her voice tearful. "How could you?" Without waiting for a reply, she turns Jon's face to hers, "Jon? Are you all right?"

Her eyes freeze on his, and suddenly Jon knows she can see. She can see what he wants to do. Fear crosses her face, and she glances at her mother.

"Jon?" she asks, her voice small. Suddenly, everything is so very far away. "Let's go clean you up." She pulls at his hand, and Jon wants to go to her. But Hullen, Rickon, Arya and Catelyn are here, and Jon knows that what he does will be the talk of the house for the next weeks. So he shakes his head.

"No," he says, glaring at Catelyn for a brief moment. "Father gave me things to do while he's in the hospital. I'll finish up, and then get clean. Hullen, please take Catelyn to her room and give her a Valium. Arya, Sansa, I'm going to need you two to take Rickon back to bed."

"I wish you had never been born," Catelyn snarls. "I wish your mother had died and taken you with her. If I'd have known that Ned was keeping such a secret when you were conceived I would have killed her myself..." Catelyn stops, white faced. Her children stare at her, their mouths open. Bran has finally roused himself, and Rickon presses himself into Bran's side, seeking out his warmth. Sansa stands, shocked, swaying slightly. Jon reaches for her, but not before Arya grabs her sister's elbow.

They have, for the first time, heard their mother wish for their brother's death.

Jon can feel the cold spreading to his face and chest. "Hullen," he says, quiet and raw, "take Catelyn upstairs and give her a Valium." Then, his voice harder, "I have work to do."

"Don't touch me," Catelyn says weakly, batting Hullen's hands away with all the strength of a new born kitten, her voice lacking conviction. She looked around, but none of her children could meet her eyes. Only Jon stared into her face, and clenched his jaw. He wouldn't look away. He wouldn't let her see him look away. Her shoulders slumped in defeat and she looked down.

Hullen met Jon's eyes, nodded at him, and grabbed Catelyn by the shoulders. "Come on," he said gruffly. "Let's get you to bed."

"Jon," Bran said when his mother was gone, her sobs echoing in her wake. Jon forced himself to move, and he opened the safe, pulling out the files he needed. "Jon, she didn't mean that," Bran insisted, his voice weak. "She's just upset."

"Stop that!" Arya growled. "You know she meant it. Don't be a baby. Mom's always had issues with Jon." Her voice lowered, "She's always wanted him dead."

With that, Arya marches over to Jon, hugs him fiercely, and squeezes. When she pulls away, she glares at Bran and Rickon, who's been watching with quiet eyes. "C'mon, let's go. I'm taking you each to your rooms. Jon has work to do. Sansa, go help him clean himself up."

And then they're gone. It's just him and Sansa now.

He drops the files onto the desk, and is about to open them up when he sees a drop of blood splatter on the topmost folder. He touches his face and it comes away sticky with blood. Huffing, Jon drops into his father's chair, going boneless with exhaustion.

He risks a glance at Sansa. She hasn't moved yet. She's staring at the spot he'd been in when Catelyn had scratched him. The spot where she'd seen the hate and anger and desire for pain in his face.

"Sansa," he whispers. "Look at me."

She doesn't. She wraps her arms around herself, and goes into the bathroom. He can hear her sniffling from inside, and imagines her crying, breaking down. He should go to her, whisper in her ears, make her forgive him, but he can't make himself get up. He hears the faucet running.

Jon closes his eyes and scrubs a hand across his face. When he feels a cold washcloth on his temple, he doesn't exactly startle, but it's a near thing.

"I'm sorry," he says, finally.

"For what?" Sansa asks, her voice flat.

"I scared you."

She digs the washcloth in a little too hard, and Jon winces, but keeps his eyes closed. He can't look at her yet.

"You did," she says, and suddenly, her hand is on his face, gentle. "I've never seen you like that. With her. I understand why you were angry."

"You don't," he whispers. "Sansa, I wanted to-"

"But you didn't," she interrupts. "You wouldn't hurt her, would you?"

Her fingers stroke his cheek.

"She wants me dead. She thinks I'm poisoning Father. She thinks I'm taking Robb's place. Robb isn't even _here_ , Sansa. He doesn't want to be here."

"Open your eyes, Jon." He doesn't. "Jon," Sansa's voice is soft, but there's a steel underneath.

He does. She watches him, her eyes blue like her mother's. But Catelyn's eyes never held such love for him. And that's it, isn't it. That's love.

"Robb," Sansa begins, "is a fool. He's not here because he thinks his work is done. He put the kids to sleep and now he can go and have his girlfriend take care of him like the big baby he is. He didn't think that we might still need him, he didn't think to follow you and Daddy to the hospital, and he didn't think to check on his mother. He doesn't want to be here, you're right. He'd be happiest as an accountant for a big firm somewhere, not as a mobster. But my mother's got it into her head that he's the one who's gonna carry on the Stark and Tully legacy, no matter how hard he rails against it." Sansa grips his chin, hard. "Jon, you're here. Be here, not off in your head. Stay here, with me."

His eyes feel unfocused. "I can't," he says, even as he feels Sansa undoing his belt. "I have work to do. Father..." he catches a breath when she palms him, hard. "I have to take care of things."

Sansa kneels in front of Jon. "You will," she says, and pulls his boxers down with his pants in one fluid movement, urging him to lift his hips so she can pull them to his knees. He's already hard (but he's been getting here since the blood was spilled, hasn't he?) and Sansa's breath gusts over him. "But for now, come back. Don't be angry," she says, and his face tightens, then relaxes when she touches him.

"Sansa," he whispers. "This is father's chair."

She looks up at him through her lashes, "I've noticed, Jon." And that's all the warning he gets before she lowers her head.

* * *

Her mother or Jon.

That's the choice, isn't it? And even as Sansa says that Jon wouldn't hurt her mother, she remembers his eyes, angry and hard, and knows that he would. She looks up at him, blood on his face, biting his lip hard to keep quiet and not quite managing it.

She moves slowly, drawing it out while she thinks feverishly. Her head feels hot and her cheeks hurt from crying and scrubbing the tears away, but Jon's face makes it worth the trouble. He's present, he's only feeling what she's doing, and that's what Sansa wanted.

But the thought swirls around in her head, even as she licks at him and watches him and hears his breath hitching.  _Mother or Jon. Mother or Jon. Mother or Jon._

"Sansa," he whispers, breaking the silence. Suddenly his hands are in her hair, guiding her, making her go faster. "God, Sansa, I love the way you feel. Don't stop." His voice chokes off, "Never stop."

She won't, she can't, she'll never leave him. She pushes the mantra out of her head and loses herself in Jon. He comes with a gush, and Sansa feels the world edging in on her again as she slowly grabs for the washcloth and dries herself. The blood and semen mix, and when she stands up to kiss him, she can taste the blood on his lips. The scratches aren't too deep, but they were long, and would take a while to heal. For a long time, she sits in his lap, curled around him and clutching at his shoulders, her head filled with the image of her mother with Jon's blood on her fingers. _I wish you had never been born_ , her mother had snarled.

At around 4 in the morning, Sansa disentangles herself from Jon, and says, "I'm going to go get the first aid kit. Wash your face, baby, the blood is dry already."

"Baby?" he echoes, his voice rough. "Here I thought Robb was the baby."

Sansa kisses Jon on the cheek. "But you're _my_ baby, Jon. I love you."

His eyes meet hers when she pulls away. "I love you too."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read and review!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of the minds. There is much to discuss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I had the time to update this! I've been either really stumped on how to continue or really busy with work, school and tests. I hope you guys like this chapter, and please review! Reviews make my day, especially after the long days I've been having.
> 
> I've introduced Roslin Frey! I'm going to make her into a really cool character, so I want you guys to tell me what you think of her so far.

Jon meets Ramsay in Central Park.

His father’s being kept in NYU for now, so Jon’s in the city anyway. Ramsay comes with little fuss, and waves his hot dog to Jon in greeting. He’s got mustard on his chin.

Jon hands him a napkin from his pocket. “You eat like a child,” Jon admonishes. Ramsay shrugs carelessly and wipes his chin.

“Child at heart, Snow. Child at heart.”

It’s cold, and there’s snow on the ground. Their breath mingles in the air, puffy like a cloud. Suddenly, Ramsay is serious.

“My father wants to know if we’re moving soon,” Ramsay tells Jon.

“Wait until everyone comes. Alys Karstark is doing something for me, but she'll come to the next meeting. Right now, we’re waiting for Dacey,” Jon reminds him. “And Umber Jr. and whoever the Freys sent.”

Ramsay scoffs. “Old man Walder thinks this meeting’s beneath him, does he?”

Jon huddles into his jacket a moment before he straightens. He shouldn’t slouch. This meeting is important. “I wanted them here, not him,” he reminds Ramsay. “It would be strange if we met with the old man. This way, it’s just a bunch of friends meeting up. We’re all about the same age.”

Ramsay is quiet, and for a moment he looks grim. “Olyvar Frey is missing, still. Think that’s gonna throw a wrench in the Frey involvement?”

“No,” Jon says. “Walder doesn’t much care for his children.”

Ramsay grins, and the insane spark is back in his eyes. “Reminds me of my dad, then.”

Jon laughs, “Believe me, Bolton, Walder Frey makes your dad look like a model parent.”

“You guys are early,” a voice says from behind them, accompanied by the crunch of boots on snow. Dacey joins them, in uniform, her big NYPD coat doing a lot to keep her warm. Jon eyes it enviously. “I’m due at the station in an hour and a half,” she lets Jon know. “Let’s try and make this quick.”

“We’re waiting on two more,” Jon says, then amends his statement. “One more. I see Umber Jr.”

Jon Umber Jr. lumbers up to them. He seems jittery. Jon doesn’t know him well, but Dacey does, and her smile seems to put him at ease.

“Who are the Freys sending?” Dacey asks, and Jon shakes his head. They haven’t been told yet. Walder Frey responded to the invite late, and just said he’d be sending one of his kids to speak for him.

They quiet down as a woman walking her dog approaches. Umber steps aside to let her pass, but she raises her eyebrows. “Jon Snow?” she asks, looking around at the group. “Which one of you is Jon Snow?”

Jon clears his throat. “You’re Roslin Frey,” he says. That surprised him. He thought Walder would send one of his stupid, malleable sons. “Thought you were away at law school.”

Roslin smiles, and it’s sharp, like the blade of a knife. “I was. I go to Columbia.” She stoops down, and scratches the dog behind the ears. “I’ll be handling my father’s side of the business from now on. He’s old, and can’t really leave the house much. I’m to be his eyes and ears.”

Jon nods briskly. It’s not a bad choice. From what he knows about her, Roslin Frey seems sharp and smart. He checks his watch. 7:45. “Let’s walk,” he suggests. “There’s someone I’d like you all to meet.”

Ten minutes later, in a café at the edge of the park, Jon sits down. Ramsay follows immediately, and so does Dacey. Umber Jr. and Roslin look suspicious, until the fat boy in the corner makes way to their booth.

“Hello, Jon,” Sam Tarly says cheerfully. “Is the meeting on, then?”

Jon gestures to everyone, “Sam, this is Roslin Frey, Jon Umber Jr., Dacey Mormont and Ramsay Bolton.”

Sam eyes Ramsay. “We’ve met,” he says, keeping his voice chipper. “C’mon, then. I’ve got to get back to the boys at the Watch.”

Jon raises a brow at Umber Jr. until he sits. Roslin takes her seat daintily, on the edge of her chair.

“So,” Jon begins. “My father is dying.”

There’s silence around the table. Umber Jr. looks shocked that Jon put it so bluntly.

Jon laughs. “What? You’ve all suspected, I’m sure. He has cancer. Mets in his lungs. He’s going to suffocate to death, basically. It’s slow and painful.”

Dacey finds Jon’s knee under the table and gives it a warning squeeze. He’s being to blasé about this, but he doesn’t care.

“But see, if my father dies, Robb is the head of the Stark family business.” Jon takes a moment to look into all of their eyes.

“That can’t be allowed to happen,” Roslin says finally. She toys with her coffee cup. “He wants to go legit. He would turn in all of your father’s assets and businesses to the police and the FBI, and try to legitimize whatever’s left. All of our families would lose money. A lot of it. And most of us would end up in jail.”

“How do you know that?” Umber Jr. rumbles from inside his big chest.

Roslin sends him a bitter smile full of points. “We dated. In undergrad.”

_Fucked each other in undergrad, more like,_ Jon thinks. Robb never brought Roslin home. They’d gone to his dorm instead, according to Arya. Jon was in college, so he’d never been introduced to Roslin. The one and only time Robb had spoken of her to him, he’d praised how rough she was in bed. _Like a wild animal_ , Robb had slurred drunkenly. _It was fucking amazing._

“Robb thinks he’s just going to inherit his father’s empire,” Dacey says. Jon sits back to let her speak. “But right now, no one supports him but the Flints, and some odd groups. We’ve got the Karstarks, the Mormonts, the Umbers,” she shoots a glare at Umber Jr, who is fidgeting, “the Freys, the Boltons, and the Dustins.”

“We don’t have the Manderlys,” Roslin reminds them all. “They’re loyal to Robb. That’s a huge family right there.”

“The Manderlys have the least to lose with Robb. They’re mostly legitimate businesses,” Ramsay says. “None of them have killed anyone for the Family. None of them have kidnapped, extorted or tortured anyone. Not like all of us have.”

“To be fair,” Sam says, “I haven’t done any of those things either.” He looks at them all. “The Watch is split. Half support Jon. The other half is with Robb, or split. Benjen doesn’t care much. He’s not very fond of Ned Stark to begin with.”

Jon holds up his hand. Sam quiets down, and Roslin, who opened her mouth to speak, closes it. “That’s not the issue at hand,” Jon tells them all. “We have the support we need to move forward. Right now, we’ve got to plan the next few weeks. What actions will we take to wrestle control into our hands? The Manderlys are a concern, true. The Flints, not so much.”

“What about that detective?” Ramsay asks. “Tarth?”

Sam grins and bounces in his seat. “Oh! I’ve handled that.”

“How?” Roslin asks. Her voice is skeptical.

“My dad’s the police chief. Randyll Tarly?” Sam is smiling so widely Jon can see his molars. “He’s been swamping her with cases. He doesn’t like her much.” He proceeds to tell them how his father is tormenting Brienne Tarth and keeping her from investigating.

Jon takes a moment to study them all. He finds that if he looks at people when they aren’t looking at him, he can tell what they’re thinking. Umber was easy. He was jittery. He’d grown up with Robb. This wasn’t comfortable for him, but his dad was in, so he had to be. Besides, he wasn’t really friends with Robb anymore, now that Robb had his college buddies, and his fancy education. Ramsay was in, all the way, if only for the chaos. Dacey’s knee was pressed up against Jon’s, a show of support. Sam would follow Jon to the ends of the earth, power that intoxicates Jon some times.

But Roslin…Roslin isn’t watching Sam. She’s watching Jon.

_Look out for her,_ his mind supplies. _She’s looking for trouble._

* * *

Sansa pulls Jon into her room the second she sees him outside her door. He looks surprised.

She kisses him as she unzips his jacket. "Where were you all day?" she mutters. "You said you'd take me to visit Daddy."

His nose is cold, and Sansa shivers when it grazes her cheek. He pulls away, leaving Sansa feeling empty and afraid. "He's all right, isn't he?" she asks. "What did the doctor say?"

"He's got cancer, Sansa," Jon tells her, as he plops on her bed. Sansa follows him, and shakes his shoulder.

"How bad is it?" she demands. "Jon, I'm trying to have a conversation."

"Sorry," he mumbles. "It's been a long day." He props himself up on his elbows and Sansa regards him. His curls are hanging in his eyes, and his face is flushed from the cold. He's never looked so good. Even the scab on his face where her mother scratched at him doesn't take away from how good it is to look at him. "It's bad, San."

She sits on the edge of the bed. "Tell me," she says. "I need to know. Hullen wouldn't let any of us out of the house without permission. Arya tried to sneak out twice."

"He's got tumors in his lungs." Jon sighs tiredly, and Sansa  thinks she can _hear_ the weight bearing down on him. "He's been sick for a while, Sansa."

"How long?"

"A year. It's part of why he called me back. He needed me to take care of things he couldn't any more."

Sansa's voice is small. "Like...business things?"

Jon nods, and takes her hands. "The prognosis is bad."

Sansa can feel tears forming. "What is it?" she asks, and her voice cracks.

Jon pulls her close, and Sansa clambers onto his lap. "He has inoperable tumors," Jon says, and his voice sounds muffled against her hair. "And he won't do chemo, because...well, the doctors say it wouldn't really help."

"So he's not gonna do anything?" Sansa asks.

"No," Jon kisses her cheeks, and Sansa realizes she's crying. "He wants to live out however long he can without treatment."

"Why?" Sansa cries, and a sob rises. She wipes her face furiously.

"Sansa," Jon says, and he pulls away from her. His words are urgent. "You have to understand this. In our business, people follow strength."

His eyes are grey. Sansa forces herself to think about his words before she can get lost in them. "I don't--you mean that if people knew he was sick, they wouldn't follow him?" Sansa's mind starts whirling. Suddenly, she understands.

"So he'd rather die...He's _going to die_ because he wants to look strong?" A bitter laugh escapes Sansa's throat. "Well, jokes on him, because if they follow strength, they'll never follow Robb."

"No," Jon agrees. "They won't." Something in his voice makes Sansa look at him, really look at him. He looks tired. But there's something shining through. Determination.

"Sansa," Jon says, "I have to tell you something."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you think Jon's gonna say? :) Next chapter begins with Sansa's POV.
> 
> Please review!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a day for truths, lies, and control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...
> 
> This is actually the fastest I've updated this fic in a while, but I really wanted to write about Roslin a bit, and I wanted to write about Sansa's conversation with Jon. I'll let you all tell me what you've thought about that part.
> 
> I've also included Arya and Gendry in this chapter, and I know not everyone reading this fic is a huge fan of theirs. I'm not going to be updating the relationships tags, because I do want this to be about Jon and Sansa's relationship primarily, and I'm only writing about Gendry because I want to show how Arya is experimenting with her control over other people. That being said, it's such a strange dynamic for me to write, because I haven't really written them together before. Anyway, enjoy!

“Go on, then,” Sansa says, expectant. Jon closes his eyes, and she can almost see the gears in his head turning. “What is it, Jon?”

He sighs and opens his eyes, “I’m trying to decide how much is safe to tell you,” he admits, and suddenly, Sansa feels a prickle of doubt in the back of her neck.

“Safe?” she repeats. “Jon, tell me _everything._ What’s going on?”

He reaches for her, and Sansa can’t shake that feeling. Something is wrong here, and she can’t decide what. Has Olyvar’s body been found? Jon had told her he was careful with the evidence. God, if someone found it, or started asking questions…they’d have to put a stop to it, wouldn’t they?

“Something’s going on, with Father’s business,” he says, his voice low. “Robb didn’t know he was sick, Sansa. He’s known something was wrong for a while, though.”

Now Sansa just feels confused. “What does Robb have to do with anything?” she demands angrily. “What does he know?”

“Nothing,” Jon swears, patting Sansa’s shoulder to calm her. “Sansa, baby, he doesn’t know anything about us. He just knows that Father is sick now. Remember when he disappeared last night? After I took Father to the hospital?”

Sansa nods wordlessly.

“Father didn’t tell him. He only told me and Benjen and his doctors. And now Robb knows that Father’s dying. He didn’t go to his girlfriend last night, Sansa. He went to the FBI.”

 _No_.

Sansa is surprised with the violence of her thought, the way it slices through her brain with a force that leaves her dizzy. For a terrifying moment, she doesn’t believe Jon. For a terrifying moment, she almost pushes him away. But the moment passes and the red clears from her vision. There’s only one reason that Robb would be working with the FBI.

“He wants to legitimize the business,” she says, her voice far away and so soft that she can barely hear it. “He wants to turn it around.”

“He wants to send everyone on the wrong side of this organization to jail,” Jon clarifies. His hands come to her cheeks, cradle her face. Everything is blurry, and Sansa feels faint. Robb _wouldn’t—_ would he? “He wants to send _me_ to jail, Sansa. I’m on the wrong side of this too. I’ve done more dirty work than Robb’s even imagined possible. There’s no way I’m getting out of this unscathed.”

Sansa shakes her head, a sharp, jerky moment that throws Jon’s hands off. “ _No_ ,” she hisses. “That’s not happening. He can make a deal for you, Jon, he wouldn’t just let you be arrested—”

“Wouldn’t he?” Jon retorts, his face blank. Sansa can’t read his expression. “Wouldn’t he?” he repeats, softer. “Sansa, if he meant to ask for me to be spared the investigation he would have included me, approached me. I’m his _brother_. He’s throwing me under the bus.”

“ _Why_?” Sansa explodes, shoving Jon in the chest. “Why would he do that? Why?”

Jon doesn’t answer for a long time. Sansa’s so angry, and her mind is working so hard to make _sense_ of it all that she barely hears his reply. “For your mother,” he whispers.

And then it clicks.

“After Father is dead,” Jon continues, although Sansa doesn’t need him to now, she _understands_ now, “I won’t belong here anymore. The only reason she’s put up with me this long is for him. And with him gone…well, you saw what she did to me last night.” Jon gestures to his face, where the scratch stands out red against his skin. “Robb is a mama’s boy, Sans. He may love me like a brother, but it’s not enough to keep me here. For her, he’d get rid of me.”

Sansa leans forward, grabs his hands. “We’ll go to Canada,” she says feverishly. “You lived there after college. Toronto, right? We’ll go away. The FBI is an American agency, we’ll be _safe_ there.”

Jon looks confused for a moment, and then his face transforms into something intense, something that would have scared Sansa before this all started. He leans forward and kisses her, hard. It’s a rough kiss, with teeth and little finesse, but Sansa gives as good as she gets.

When he pulls away, he tells her, “I’m not running away, Sansa. Father needs me. You’re finishing up school. This is our place.”

With desperation, Sansa begs him, “Jon, please, we can’t stay.”

“We can,” he says. “I’m not going to let him do this. To us.”

And suddenly, Sansa sits back and glowers at him. “What do you mean?” she asks, voice hard. “You have a plan?”

“I do,” Jon says. “Robb isn’t as stealthy as he thinks. It was Ramsay who had him followed, and Ramsay who saw that he met with the feds. Ramsay reported to his father, who gathered the other family heads. If I make a move against Robb, they’ll all back me.”

Sansa opens her mouth, partly in surprise and partly because she wants to yell at him. She settles on a scathing “What?”

“I wouldn’t _hurt_ him,” Jon insists. “But Robb doesn’t know anything about the less…legal parts of the business. He only knows about the accounts, and that’s what the FBI want to see. But I’ve got another banker ready to change all the account numbers, and most of the family ready to back me if I take over. Robb would be free to pursue whatever clean, legal jobs he wants, and he’d leave us _alone,_ Sansa.”

Sansa gets up and walks to the window. Suddenly, she has to be far away from… _this_. The information is too much to take in at once, and Jon’s proximity was not helping.

She looks out the window. Bran and Rickon are playing in the snow, and Arya is behind a tree, backing snow in her hands, ready to come out and attach with an arsenal of snowballs. They would lose this, she realizes. They’d be put in witness protection somewhere, and Sansa would live out her days hating Robb and missing Jon, stewing in anger.

“If you’re doing this,” Sansa begins, her voice hard, “I want to know everything, Jon. Don’t leave a single thing out, because if you do, I will absolutely _murder_ you, you hear me?”

There’s a creak as Jon lifts himself off her bed, comes up behind her. He puts his arms around her, lips on her neck. “I hear you,” he says, kissing her neck. “You’re going to know everything, I promise.”

“It’s you and me, Jon,” Sansa says, her voice catching. “No in-betweens. If we’re going to do this, you can’t lie to me.”

Jon is still pressing kisses into her skin. Sansa can feel the knots in her shoulders start to loosen.

“No lies,” he promises.

* * *

 

Roslin’s father used to call her useless.

 _Useless brat,_ he’d say. _Good for nothing smartass. No guy’s gonna want a girl who opens their mouth and hear words come out of it. Women should only open their mouth for one reason, little fucker. It ain’t that._

He’d blamed her for not getting Robb Stark to stay with her. She’d been in college when Robb had come over to look at the Frey accounts, visiting home for the weekend. Her father had clearly intended for the visits to collide, and Roslin found herself flirting, for the first time in years, with a boy she was actually attracted to. Usually, her dad brought home ugly men with bald heads when he was trying to curry favor. But Robb’s blue eyes and wide smile had charmed Roslin, and he’d visited her dorm later that week to hang out. Roslin had felt special, and Robb made her warm and tingly and pretty. She’d never tried so hard to make a man fall in love with her.

 _Useless!_ Her father’s voice echoes in her head, and Roslin lets it. One day, she’s going to watch him die, and it’s the thought that gets her out of bed every morning.

She rests her head against the steering wheel for a moment, banishes Robb Stark’s red curls from her mind. She wants to see him toppled too. When she raises her head, she spots _him_.

Theon Greyjoy.

She scrambles out of the car. “Greyjoy!” she calls, voice sweet. “Theon Greyjoy!”

Theon doesn’t even turn. Roslin wonders if he’s got some hearing impediment.

She rushes up to him. It’s not often Ramsey lets Greyjoy out of his cage, and Roslin’s determined to get a word in before he returns to him. When she grabs his shoulder, he flinches away so violently Roslin wonders how his neck stays attached.

“D-don’t _touch_ me,” he stammers.

“Where’s Olyvar?” she demands.

Theon’s eyes cloud over, and he shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Roslin laughs, and it’s a scary sound. Olyvar was her favorite brother, the only boy who loved her in a house of men who resented her. The only boy who loved her, ever. “Don’t lie to me. You, Robb and Olyvar were best friends once. My brother disappears, and you both have no idea where? Fat chance.”

Theon presses his hat down over his ears with shaking hands. Some fingers are missing, Roslin notes dispassionately. “I haven’t s-seen him in _y-years_ ,” he stutters.

“Bullshit. No one’s seen him? How is that?” she comes closer and lowers her voice. “Ramsay gets rid of bodies, of people. It’s his _job._ I just wanna know if someone came in with Olyvar’s body, or someone wanted Ramsay to get rid of him. Please, Theon. I know the two of you were close.”

Theon shakes his head. His voice is a whisper. “No one came in with him,” he says. “And it’s not Theon anymore. I’m Reek.”

When Roslin gets back to her car, she slams the door in her frustration. Olyvar had been in love with Theon, once. When Ned Stark gave him over to Ramsay, Olyvar had cried and cried in her lap for ages, and refused to speak to Ramsay, or look at him.

 _Women shouldn’t open their mouths,_ her father had said. It was Olyvar who laughed when Roslin repeated it to him, voice shaking.

“You know what would be funny?” he’d asked. “If you became a lawyer. That’d show him.”

It would, Roslin had agreed.

Suddenly angry, Roslin hits the steering wheel, hard. _Goddamn it!_ If Olyvar had run from something, he would have told her, she would have helped him.

If Theon told the truth, and Olyvar didn’t go through Ramsay’s playhouse, it meant something else had happened.

Jon Snow runs through her thoughts, for a moment. Roslin wonders, for a moment, if she could get him to tell her. She got the feeling he knows more than he’d given away, this morning. The way he’d looked at her…

It had made her prickle, that’s for sure. The warmth was there, too, the warmth of attraction she’d felt with Robb. She’d briefly considered seducing Jon, if only to get back at his brother. _I can ruin your life too,_ she’d thought in that diner, sitting across from Jon.

He knew something. He had to know something.

* * *

 

Gendry squints up at Arya, and takes a deep pull of his cigarette.

“You want a gun?” he repeats, his voice low. Arya sighs in exasperation.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” she retorts, then smiles at him impishly.

“What do you need a gun for?” he asks, and sets down his rag, crushes the cigarette beneath his heel. He leans against the car he’s been working on, a red Jaguar. Arya aches to push him into the backseat, get a little grease on the pristine leather. First, though, she needs him to agree.

“Just ‘cause,” she replies, her fingers dancing against the zipper of his jeans. He doesn’t shift away, but he does look away, down her shirt. “It’s my right as an American citizen,” she jokes. “Second amendment, and all.”

Gendry shifts his hips up a bit, pressing more into her hand. “Is it?” he muses. “Learned that in school, huh?”

Arya doesn’t move closer. “Get me a gun, and I’ll tell you all about it,” she says, grinning. “I’ll be the teacher, and I’ll tell you all about the fucking Second Amendment. You’d have to call me Miss Stark and everything.”

Gendry’s eyes darken at the thought. Arya’s discovered that he likes her in charge, and she takes charge now, once he says, “I’ll get a gun.”

“Get in the backseat,” she orders, and Gendry hesitates for a second before he complies.

“This isn’t my car,” he protests, but she knows it’s all for show. He’s too turned on to really care, yet.

“I don’t care,” she mutters against his forehead, before she pushes him flat. It’s a small car, and his legs dangle outside of it.

“Fuck!” he swears when she scratches her way down his chest. So Arya does.

He’s nearly bleeding from the bite on his shoulder when they’re finished, and he’s bleary and slow and relaxed when they’re done, like he always is when Arya hurts him.

“Call me when you have it?” Arya asks, stroking his belly softly. She has to be careful with him, after. He’s all wild eyed, but submissive, when they’re fucking, but it all changes after. Gendry has to feel loved once they’re done, or his moods get dark and his thoughts get ugly.

“Sure,” he says, voice timid. Arya starts to climb off him, when he calls her name.

“Thank you,” he says, neck red. “I needed that.”

Arya bites his lip. “Let me know, next time you do,” she teases. Her face hardens a fraction. “But get me that gun, Gendry.”

He nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we have a kind of dom/sub relationship between Gendry and Arya. *hides face*
> 
> That was weird for me to write. I loved it, though, because even psychotic Arya would be great with aftercare, even though she's got a snarky relationship with him otherwise.
> 
> Roslin is trying to find out what happened with Olyvar, as some people predicted in the comments last chapter. She's going to have a big impact on the story moving forward, so let me know what you guys thought of her POV, and if you think I should continue with it or narrate her through other people's eyes. 
> 
> And, unfortunately, Jon did not tell Sansa the whole truth. He's making himself out to be the good guy, doing what is necessary to combat Robb's moves. He didn't tell her he's been planning this for a while, and he's definitely still manipulating her. 
> 
> Also, Theon/Reek makes an appearance again!
> 
> Let me know what you think in the comments! Please review!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon isn't as transparent as he promised he'd be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! It's been a while. I'd kind of lost inspiration for this fic for a bit, and I didn't want to upload a chapter that was half-hearted. So, my inspiration came back this week and I wrote this up! Enjoy, and please let me know what you think below!

Jon can’t really say he’s surprised to see Roslin Frey in his father’s study. She’s the first thing he sees when he opens the door, all long legs and curled hair, done up like a doll. It’s not subtle, her would-be manipulation, but there’s something about her that draws him in despite himself. She looks up at him, wide eyed and projecting innocence.

He gets the feeling she knows he isn’t fooled, but a moment later, she’s standing, brushing her hands off on her skirt and giving him an appraising look.

“Mr. Snow,” she starts, then asks, “would it be alright if I called you Jon?”

“Of course,” he says evenly, and gives her his most charming smile, the mask he slips into easily these days. “Who let you in, Roslin?”

She laughs, and he can hear the ring of disbelief, “Robb, of all people. He was rushing out. Seemed very surprised I was here to see you, though. The boy’s a bit dense when it comes to what’s going on right under his nose, isn’t he?”

“You’d know better than me,” Jon says. There’s a wince behind her eyes, and Jon knows he’s struck a nerve. Everyone’s heard of the fiasco that was their relationship. Jon supposes that Roslin puts up an uncaring front, but something in her still hurts. Jon switches gears, “I’m sorry, that was insensitive of me. Please, sit.”

With that, Jon sits in his father’s chair. Unbidden, his mind flies back to a few days ago, where Sansa blew him in this very spot. The memory is strong, and he has to fight to keep himself in the now.

Roslin sits in her chair, perched at the edge of it. “It’s alright,” she says, and waves a hand. “Ancient history. I’m more concerned with recent events.”

Jon leans back, waiting. Roslin raises a brow at his silence.

“My brother’s missing,” she tells him, breaking the moment. “Olyvar. You know, you grew up with him.”

Jon nods, “I heard. Are there any leads yet? Or any news?”

“Not as of yet,” Roslin runs her fingers against the cushioning of her chair, and then raises her eyes to Jon’s. She looks like she’s searching for something. “My brother wouldn’t just drop off the grid like this. He’s not even involved in the business—”

“We’re all involved,” Jon interrupts. “Whether we think so or not.”

“Fine,” Roslin says, eyes flashing, “but he was involved in the legal side, Jon. There’s no reason he should be targeted by anyone. So where is he?”

Jon frowns, and spreads his hands. “How would I know? I barely talk to Olyvar. He’s a friend of Robb’s. You should, if anything, go see him.”

Roslin’s hand grips her armrest at the suggestion. Her voice, when it comes out, is strained. “I’m asking you. Do you know what happened to him?” Before Jon has a chance to answer, she continues, “I know he’s with Robb, but I—I could get him on our side of things, I promise. He can’t hurt our operations. If you know where he is…”

“I don’t,” Jon repeats. “I’m so sorry, Roslin, I know that you must be going crazy not knowing, but I haven’t got anything for you. You know I’ve had my ears open. I really haven’t heard anything about him these past few weeks.”

Roslin opens her mouth to say more, but the study door opens and Sansa flounces in, saying, “Hey, Jon…” before the words die on her lips.

Jon stands, almost without meaning to. Roslin’s eyes narrow at him, and then at Sansa.

“You’re Sansa, right?” Roslin says, rising as well. “Robb’s told me about you.”

“Sansa, this is Roslin Frey,” Jon announces, before Sansa can say anything. Her eyes widen at the name, and Jon wills her to stay calm. Sansa’s been a model of composure since her breakdown in the shower, but he can still tell when she’s feeling guilty over what they did to Olyvar.

“Oh!” Sansa says, her face pale, paler than it should be. She manages a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Roslin. You know Robb?”

Roslin reaches Sansa, and they’re shaking hands before Jon can move. He stays frozen behind the desk. He cannot, cannot give anything away.

“Not too well,” Roslin says breezily, and touches Sansa’s hair with a finger, twisting a lock, “Oh, this is a beautiful color. You’re so lucky you don’t have to dye it. You Starks got lucky with your red hair, don’t you think, Jon?”

Jon’s fingers are so tense that he can feel the blood straining to push past his closed fist.

“Yeah, they all got really lucky. Roslin… maybe we could finish this discussion later?”

“Maybe,” Roslin says offhandedly, not paying Jon mind any more. “Sansa, did you know my brother? You probably know him better than Jon does, since Olyvar hung out more with the family.”

Jon barely registers that Roslin’s implying he’s not a part of that family she’s referring to. All he can see is the discomfort on the edge of Sansa’s expression, almost too subtle to see.

“I do know Olyvar,” Sansa says carefully. “Did you find him yet?”

Roslin doesn’t take her hand off Sansa’s hair, but turns to take in Jon, standing tense against the desk. Her brows knit together. “No,” she says, and turns back to Sansa, stroking the strands before stepping away. “I came to ask Jon if he’s heard anything, but with all the planning going on, I suppose he hasn’t had the time to look into Olyvar’s disappearance.”

“Planning?” Sansa echoes, her voice faint. Jon can see her fear, her nerves.

“Roslin,” he says, voice harsh. “Sansa has nothing to do with the family business. She’s still in high school.”

Roslin shoots Jon a feral grin that looks like an animal baring its teeth. “Right. I forget, Ned Stark’s children don’t get their hands as dirty as the rest of us. At least, not right away.”

He shoots her a warning glare, all pretense of being charming gone. Jon’s got the feeling that they’re both laid bare, both finally showing their real selves to the other.

Roslin steps away from Sansa, and Jon’s relief is dampened by his apprehension as she moves towards him.

Under her breath, she whispers, “If you’re lying, Jon Snow, I will make sure you know what it means to get on my bad side,” and then her lips are on his cheek, cold and barely felt. “Thank you for your time, Jon,” she says, and squeezes his hand. “Let me know if you hear anything.”

Jon catches sight of Sansa’s face just as Roslin turns to do the same. She’s staring at the two of them, her mouth in a hard line. “Nice to meet you,” Roslin purrs, and kisses Sansa’s cheek just as lightly on her way out. “I hope we get to spend time getting to know one another.”

Sansa just nods, mutely. She manages a small smile, but Jon can see what it costs her. When she opens the door to see Roslin out, Hullen is standing outside it, ready to show her the door.

 

* * *

 

There are so many questions Sansa wants to ask when she returns to the study. Jon is sitting again, buried in papers, but he looks up when she enters.

“Does she know?” Is the question Sansa settles on.

“I don’t know,” Jon answers, too quickly. He winces. Sansa closes the door behind her, mind racing.

“I just gave it away, didn’t I?”

“We don’t know that,” Jon says, but his voice doesn’t hold much conviction. Sansa wants to kick herself for not controlling her face better. She’d seen Roslin’s expression, confused and then suspicious, at Sansa’s reactions to their interaction.

“You have lipstick on your cheek,” Jon tells her, and she scrubs at it with shaking hands, wanting to rid herself of any trace of that woman. Sansa doesn’t know why she’s so unsettled by a conversation—barely one, at that—and she comes around the desk to settle in Jon’s lap.

Jon reaches behind him to flick the curtain closed.

“She scared me,” Sansa admits. “She looked like she could tell. What we—what we _do_.”

“We can’t kill her,” Jon says, more to himself than to her. “We need the Freys.”

“What do you mean?” Sansa asks, already unbuttoning his pants. Her mind races. “For your _planning_?”

This is, Sansa’s learned, the best way to get information out of Jon. Distract him with her body, distract him enough that he lets some—not much, but some—slip.

Jon doesn’t take his eyes off her face, though, not even when his head falls back against the chair. “Yes,” he says simply.

“Tell me why,” she demands, settling her knees on either side of his hips and rubbing against him slowly. An involuntary noise escapes her throat.

Jon’s hands settle on her hips. “You’re beautiful,” he says, a smile in his voice. She opens her eyes to meet his gaze. “And,” he continues, rolling his hips, “very cute when you try to get me to talk.”

Sansa’s cheeks flush with embarrassment, but he leans forward to kiss her.

“You said you’d tell me everything,” she reminds him, pulling away.

“I know,” he says. His right pinkie slips under the waistband of her underwear and Sansa groans, her head falling back when he rocks against her again. “Shh, babe,” he whispers. “Hullen’s right outside.”

“I locked the door,” Sansa whines.

“Is this why you came down?” Jon asks, his voice warm, warmer than it has a right to be. Sansa leans forward, grips the chair’s back so she can get some leverage to rub against him.

“I wouldn’t have— _nnh_ —come barging in if I knew you had _her_ in here.”

Her eyes flutter closed when she presses her forehead against his.

“Jealous?” Jon huffs against her lips, the breath tingling against hers.

“No,” she denies, and he laughs, a sound she wants to capture and keep inside her.

When Jon slips his hand past the elastic band of her underwear, Sansa could nearly groan with relief. There are no more words when he touches his fingers to her clit, circles and presses, dragging his knuckles in her wetness. It’s just her breath and his, heavy and hard while he kisses her shoulder.

They’re both fully clothed, but when Sansa comes it is so strong that she has to bite her lip to smother her shout.

“I’ll take care of Roslin,” Jon pants against her shoulder. “If she does know something, she’s keeping it close to the vest. She wouldn’t have come here if she knew for sure. She’s still fishing for something.”

In moments like these, Sansa can believe anything Jon tells her.

It’s only later that she realizes he didn’t answer her real question. She has no idea what he needs with the Freys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are great! Please do so below! What do you think of Sansa's attempts at manipulation, and her freezing up when Roslin was there? Also, I know not everyone's a fan of Roslin's, but I really like writing her in this fic, especially since she's clearly scared out of her mind, but very determined to play the game on Jon's level. What do you guys think her fate will be?


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wheel goes on and on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been on an updating spree with all my fics! Finally got around to this one again, which must be a record for me. 
> 
> Anyway, I was in part inspired by the new Game of Thrones trailer, which got my creative juices flowing. Hope y'all enjoy!

Dacey finds Jon in the playground.

Ramsey is the one to let him know, and Jon barely looks up when Dacey enters the room.

“Walk around the canvas,” he warns. “You don’t want to get blood on your shoes.”

Dacey stops a foot away from the edge of the curling plastic. Hey eyes are wary when he meets them.

“Who’s this?”

Jon doesn’t answer, and continues to wipe at the girl’s face. She’s young. Pretty, even. Despite the bloody state of her arms, her chest rises and falls evenly. Ramsey did a good job here, it seems, in keeping her alive.

Dacey comes closer. “Fuck, Jon. Is that Jeyne Westerling?”

Jon nods. “Ramsey got her to talk.”

Dacey looks sick, but just wipes her mouth hard with the back of her hand. “God,” she whispers. “She’s Robb’s girlfriend, isn’t she? The one he’s been seeing in secret.”

“A double agent,” Jon says absently, making sure all the blood is off her face. “She’s feeding information to the Lannisters, has been for weeks. Not that Robb’s told her much. He doesn’t know enough to begin with.”

“Why—” Dacey breaks off and swallows. She picks up a clean rag and dips it in the antiseptic oil Jon’s been using. For a minute, there is silence as they both work to clean Jeyne’s wounds. It would not do, Jon knows, to let her die of an infection after he’s taken so much care to make sure she survives. Finally, Dacey finds her voice.

“Jon? Why did you bring her here if she hasn’t actually got any information?”

Jon puts his rag down, and meets Dacey’s eyes. “Dace. You’re my right hand man, you know that, right?”

Dacey nods, swallowing nervously. She looks green, and Jon can see her hand shaking. She’s never been comfortable with violence of this kind, the sadistic kind that Jon and Ramsey find… a comfort in. But, ever the soldier, Dacey meets Jon’s eyes.

“Then I’m going to let you in on a piece of this, Dace.” Jon can see the moment his words sink in. Her eyes grow sharp, and she’s ready.

“Who are the Stark’s biggest rivals?”

“The Lannisters.”

“Once Robb falls—”

Dacey cuts him off, “The Lannisters will make a move on us.” She leans forward, knuckles white against the table. “You’re making your move against them and Robb at the same time, aren’t you?”

Jon doesn’t answer that. He doesn’t need to. She can see it on his face.

Dacey’s smarter than people give her credit for. She doesn’t stop there. “That’s why you’ve been talking to Dany Targaryen. The Lannister fall will create a power vacuum, and you’re going to instate the Targaryen girl in their place.”

“An ally we control over an enemy we don’t,” Jon agrees. She hasn’t gotten it all, but he knows she’ll get there. “I brought little Jeyne here so that we could find out what she knows about the Lannister operations, not what she’s told them about ours.”

“And so it all falls into place,” Dacey breathes, her nausea forgotten. Her eyes are bright. “How long have you been planning this?”

“Years,” Jon says. “I don’t know when I haven’t been planning for this.” He meets her eyes. “Are you still in, Dace? I need your support now more than ever.”

“And I’m in more than ever,” she tells him, surprising Jon with the fierceness of her declaration. “You haven’t steered me wrong, ever. And I haven’t stopped following you. I won’t.”

“Good,” Jon says, his smile sharp. “Because I have a job for you.”

 

When he leaves the room and Jeyne’s been bandaged up, Jon spots Theon. He’s slouched over a pile of papers, and his pen shakes between what fingers he has left.

“Theon,” Jon calls. Theon’s head snaps up.

“Reek,” he corrects nervously. “I’m Reek.”

Jon wipes his hands. “I don’t think you’ve been Reek for a while now.”

To Jon’s surprise, Theon meets his eyes almost defiantly.

“There you are,” Jon says. “How long have you been hiding under there?”

“Long enough,” Theon replies shakily. “I know what you’re doing.”

Jon says nothing, just watches.

“I won’t—I haven’t told her anything,” Theon continues, unnerved by Jon’s silence.

“Roslin?” Jon asks, just to make sure. “So you didn’t point her in my direction? Is that really what you’re going with?”

Theon’s fearful expression shifts, for a moment. “No,” he tells Jon. “I didn’t.”

“So you didn’t tell her anything?” Jon huffs. “Theon, I’m about to embark on the riskiest moves of my life. If you’re hiding something—”

“I’m not!”

“We’ll keep this between us for now,” Jon says, waving a hand over Theon. “That you’re not his little ‘Reek’ anymore. But if I find out you gave her anything, you’re dead this time. I’ll tell Ramsay to bury you so deep that Theon Greyjoy will be dead. Understand?”

 

* * *

 

  
The weight of the gun feels wrong to Arya.

It’s lighter than she expected. A gun can end a life. The weight should be heavier. More significant. But when she puts it in her bag, it doesn’t make it seem harder to carry. Arya doesn’t quite forget about it, but she could if she wanted. Out of her hands, it isn’t substantial to her yet, not like the knife she’d used to kill Jaquen.

“Thanks,” she tells Gendry, when he hands it to her. There’s a shaky quality to her voice, and she doesn’t like it. She can feel her blood pounding. This, in her hands. This can kill a man.

It doesn’t seem so big when she walks into her home. No one notices anything different about her, and when she swings her bag onto the ground, no one looks oddly at the thump it makes. Arya feels powerful. There’s something she knows that no one else does.

It lights her blood on fire.

 

* * *

 

  
Dinner is quiet.

Sansa guesses that it would be, with Daddy in the hospital still, and Mom in her room, medicated. Robb, for once, started the meal with them, but left pretty quickly when he got a phone call. In the end, it’s her, and Bran and Rickon and Arya, until Jon rushes in half way through.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, slipping into the chair besides hers. “I had to take care of some business.”

“How’s dad doing?” Bran asks. He’s been quiet these past few days, and Sansa makes a mental note to check in on him. Of them all, he’s been taking this the worst.

“A little better,” Jon says, piling potatoes on his plate. “He sat up without help today, and he could talk without coughing for minutes at a time.”

“Maybe he’ll be home soon,” Rickon says hopefully. “And mom can stop taking her medication and crying all the time.”

Sansa makes a choked noise.

“He isn’t getting better,” Arya mutters around a forkful of steak.

“Sorry, guys,” Robb says as he enters the room, stuffing his phone in the pocket of his jeans. “That was Jeyne’s mom.”

“Everything okay?” Jon asks, pouring himself water. Sansa gives him her cup.

“Yeah,” Robb says, “she just can’t reach Jeyne. She’s probably still in the subway, though. There isn’t any good reception down there.”

“She’ll turn up,” Sansa tells him. “Pass the salad, Bran.”

Under the table, Jon rests his hand on Sansa’s knee. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from reacting, and lays a hand over his.

“My room in twenty minutes?” Jon asks, his breath soft against her cheek.

Sansa nods, almost imperceptibly. When he removes his hand, she can breathe again, but misses the contact almost immediately.

“I’m pretty much done,” Sansa says, and forces herself to swallow the last of her salad. “I’ve got homework. Jon, you said you’d help me with calculus?”

Robb scoffs. “You remember calc?”

Jon ignores their brother. “Yeah, just head down to my room. I’m almost finished here.”

Sansa stands up, tries not to look happy. “I’ll just get my bag,” she says, unnecessarily. No one is paying her any mind.

The basement is almost cold when she goes down, and Sansa resists going to the thermostat. She knows Jon likes it colder than the rest of the house, and he’ll be down soon enough, ready to warm her.

There’s a picture of him, Robb and Dacey on his desk. Sansa feels a pang when she sees it. She remembers a time before Jon left for college when he and Robb were best friends.

“Thinking of old times?” Jon asks from behind her. Sansa turns around. He’s got his hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall. Sansa thinks he’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

“No,” she says, crossing the room. “I’m thinking of what you’re going to do to me.”

“What’s that?” Jon asks, voice low.

“First,” Sansa murmurs, sliding her hands against his shoulders, “you’re going to fuck me.”

She can feel his eyes on her lips. “And then?”

“You’re going to make me scream.”

Sansa waits. Jon’s eyes snap up to hers.

“I’d love to, sweetheart,” he rasps, “but we’re not exactly alone here.”

“We will be,” she says. “Hullen’s taking Bran to the doctor, and Rickon’s going along. Mom’s taken her Valium, Robb is going out with his college friends and Arya’s going to sneak out to see her boyfriend soon. If she hasn’t left already.” She pushes the collar of Jon’s shirt to the side, presses an open mouthed kiss to his clavicle. His skin burns her lips, and she presses another one on his throat. “You’re going to make me forget,” she tells him. “You’re going to make me forget the shitstorm we’re in, that Daddy’s sick, that Robb’s going to betray us all, that we’ve killed a man. And you’re going to make me scream.”

Jon groans, and Sansa feels him pull her hair so he can tilt her head. He studies her face, eyes dark. Her scalp is stinging, but Sansa doesn’t move, just meets his gaze head on.

“I love you,” she says. “I love you.”

Without a word, Jon pulls her back to him. Their kiss is, surprisingly, tender. His hand in her hair doesn’t slacken, and his bruising grip on her waist doesn’t loosen, but his kiss is soft.

Sansa doesn’t want soft tonight. She wants him to take her like she’s his.

So she pulls away and taunts, “Is that all?”

“No,” Jon replies, voice rough. “I love you too.”

When he shoves Sansa’s pants down and pushes her onto the bed, Sansa wants to tell him that yes, this is what she wanted, but she doesn’t have the breath to do anything but pull air in sharply through her nose while he pulls on a condom. When he enters her with a swift move, Sansa nearly cries out.

“God,” she breathes, and presses a sloppy kiss against his forehead. “Don’t stop.”

In response, Jon bites at her shoulder.

Too soon, he pulls out. Sansa begins to protest, only for him to urge her onto her knees. Swallowing hard, she lets his hands move her. She’s never been so eager for him before, never needed it so much.

When he pushes into her again, rougher this time, Sansa has to force herself to stay balanced. The angle is new, deeper, and Sansa can feel all of him inside her. His hands are hot on her back, one holding her at the waist and one pushing her shoulders into the bed.

He makes her forget, for a glorious moment, who she is.

She does scream, when she comes in the end, a choked sound that forces its way out of her throat, muffled against the pillow. And in those hazy moment between euphoria and awareness, Sansa is floating, floating above it all, and the only thing she can hear is Jon’s breathing in her ears, feel his weight on hers.

In the cooling air, she can feel sweat prickling on her skin. Jon kisses the spot between her shoulder blades before he pulls out. Sansa collapses on her belly while he gets up, comes back with a wet towel.

“Thanks,” she murmurs into her shoulder when she feels him wiping away her sweat.

Jon laughs, and Sansa giggles into her skin.

“You’re a screamer, then,” he says, kissing the crown of Sansa’s head.

“Only for you, baby.”

“Tired?” Jon asks, and Sansa feels the bed dip before his arms wrap around her again.

“Mm,” she hums. “I want this all to be over. I can’t stand the waiting.”

“Waiting?”

“For news. About Daddy.”

Jon is quiet for a long time. When the sweat finally dries and Sansa begins to shiver, he pulls his blanket around the two of them. Sansa feels, almost, safe. Safe in the cage of his arms.

“Won’t be long now,” he whispers against her neck. “One way or another, it won’t be long.”

 _I hope not_ , is her last thought before Sansa slips into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! Comment! Show me some love, and check out my other fics if you're interested!
> 
> I'd love to hear what you guys thing about the direction this is going in. We've finally found out Jon's plans for Dany and the Lannisters, Dacey makes an appearance, and Theon has returned! What surprised you in these past few chapters?
> 
> :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cogs keep turning. There's no stopping their momentum now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I UPDATED WHEN I SAID I WOULD. This is monumental, guys.
> 
> This chapter is mostly setup for the next one. Chapter 16 is gonna be long, and lots of stuff will happen.

Sansa supposes it’s not a surprise when they get the call. But it still hurts like hell to hear. The man she’d thought was invincible—the man she’d worshipped for years, her father…

“They had to put him in a coma,” Robb tells her, his face drawn and pale. He doesn’t look like he’s slept much. “It’s only a matter of time before…” he trails off. “Well, you know.”

“Say it,” Sansa whispers. “It’s only a matter of time before he rots away to nothing. It’s only a matter of time before he dies.”

Robb’s fist clenches. Sansa can see his white knucles against the dark denim. “I don’t like this any more than you do, Sansa. But we have to prepare for the inevitable.”

“The inevitable,” Sansa repeats faintly. She looks up at him. Robb’s eyes are trained on hers.

“Mom’s not going to step up, you know that.” Robb scrubs a hand across his eyes. “He’s her world, and she can barely get out of bed for three hours anyway. Your eighteenth birthday’s in a week, but you’re still going to be a dependent. We need to pay for your college, for Arya, Bran and Rickon’s schooling, the bills. This house takes a fortune in taxes and electrical bills to keep running. And there’s the matter of Dad’s business…"

"The _family_  business," Sansa interrupts. "Our business too, Robb. Don't forget that."

She’s testing him. Despite what Jon has told Sansa, she can’t really—she doesn’t want to—admit that Robb would sell them out to the feds. But his face tells her volumes. His eyes flutter shut and he draws in a deep breath before saying, “Ours too. I didn’t forget, San.”

Anger roils in Sansa’s belly. She has to fight to keep calm. “Well. Good. We can’t let it all go to shit just ‘cause Daddy’s sick, Robb. You have to keep it safe. For when he gets better.”

“He isn’t—”

“He’s going to get better!” Sansa says, voice rising. “And we’re going to keep the boat afloat, Robb. I will, at least. With or without you.”

He looks away, and Sansa can see a tic in his jaw. “I just came to update you. I’m seeing Arya next.” He stands.

Sansa turns away from him. She has to tell Jon…he’s right. Robb’s going to betray them. Maybe he won’t even wait until Daddy’s cold in the ground before he gives Jon over. It’s only a matter of time.

* * *

  
Jon has been distracted, lately. Sansa, Daenerys, Dacey, Ramsay, Theon, Robb, Father…they’ve all served to keep him busy and planning and _distracted_ , worst of all. The itch under his skin was distant, but it was there. He’d managed it. It was a victory, however small and unsatisfying. He didn’t have the time to clean up his messes, and mistakes would be costly.

It doesn’t feel like a victory now. Jon is almost shaking with the force of his anger, and from behind the wheel of his car, he can see red when he closes his eyes.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Ramsay’s voice says over Jon’s speaker. “We knew Robb was turning on us. Why does this make a difference?”

 _It makes a difference because he’s throwing me to the feds_. Jon hadn’t been sure before, hadn’t known that Robb was going to leave him to the wolves. He’d hoped…

“It doesn’t,” he says firmly, clenching and unclenching his fists around the wheel. “We have to move up our timetable.”

There’s silence on the other end. Ramsay breathes into the phone, and finally breaks it. “Look, we need you sharp, man. Do what you have to tonight. We do have to destabilize the Lannisters, you’re right. But be careful. You’ll think clearer in the morning.”

Jon breathes, and ends the call. She’s here.

He’s not sure what Sansa would say if she saw him outside of Myrcella Lannister’s doctor’s appointment. He knows that though Sansa’s not a fan of Joffrey, she likes Myrcella quite a lot. He almost (not quite, but almost) feels guilty. But it has to be Myrcella. Joffrey is never alone, and Tommen is too young. If anyone _does_ find out Jon had a part in this…they can’t know he killed an eleven year old.

He studied the layout of the place. He knows where all the cameras are. When he rolls down his tinted window, he knows that there’s nothing getting his face. He’s got his hoodie on, just in case, and his hair slicked down underneath.

“Myrcella? Is that you?”

Bright green eyes meet his. It takes a moment, but recognition dawns. “You’re Sansa’s brother, right? Jack?”

“Jon.”

“Right.” She looks uncomfortable. “How are you?”

Jon smiles, “Fine, thanks. Picking up Arya from the doctor. Do you need a ride?”

Myrcella’s eyes narrow and she looks around. “Arya was here? I didn’t see her in the waiting room.”

She’s a suspicious girl. It’s the Cersei in her, Jon supposes. He’s met Cersei twice. She’d insulted him and looked down at him both times. Myrcella looks _exactly_ like her mother.

“Myrcella?” Arya’s voice calls. She’s wearing a shapeless coat, hat and a scarf over her mouth. She tugs down the scarf, but only once she’s facing away from the cameras. “What are you doing here?”

Myrcella breaks into a relieved smile. Jon doesn’t blame her relief. He knows Sansa wouldn’t enjoy being in a parking lot with a strange man, either. That’s why Arya’s here.

“I’m just coming from a check-up!”

“Are you waiting for someone?” Arya asks. Myrcella shakes her head, blonde curls bouncing.

“I was gonna get an uber,” she begins, but Arya has already turned to Jon.

“Can we drive Myrcella back?” Arya asks, her voice sweet and innocent. Jon wants to tell her to tone it down a bit, but he nods.

Myrcella bites her lip, unsure. Their families have always gotten along personally, but lately business has been strained. Jon doesn’t blame her hesitance.

“I’ll sit in back with you,” Arya says, and opens the door, effectively making the decision..

Myrcella hovers at the edge of the car. She climbs in after a moment. Jon start the engine.

“Let me just call my mom,” Myrcella says, pulling out her phone. “Let her know where I am.”

It’s too late for her, though. Arya’s already gotten in, and ripped the phone from Myrcella’s grip. It’s easy from there. All Jon has to do is concentrate on keeping the car steady while Arya presses the chloroform soaked rag to Myrcella’s face.

* * *

  
Arya’s afraid she can’t keep the grin from her face. Even when Jon is steadying her shaking hands on the knife, she’s smiling harder than she’s ever smiled. Not Jon, though. He’s kept his eyes firmly on the body, his face intense.

When they’re done, when they’ve arranged it out in the Woodhaven Park, Jon slings an arm around her. He seems lighter, almost.

“You learn fast, little sister,” he teases, ruffling her hair. It’s fully dark now, and Arya’s eyes have adjusted—no flashlights, not with a full moon like this.

“Told you I would,” she answers, still smiling widely.

“You’re going to have to hide that face of yours,” Jon says, laughing. “You look like you’re hiding something.”

It’s only in the car again that Arya sobers. “It was good, right? For you too? I know you don’t—you don’t work with people when you do this.”

Jon looks at her before he turns the key in the ignition. “It was good,” he says. “I’m glad that we did it together. We have to work together now that Father really is sick.”

Arya feels ashamed, then. Here she is, enjoying herself, having the time of her life…and their father is comatose.

The feeling is fleeting. By the time he’s started the car, Arya’s mind is back in the park.

* * *

  
“Jeyne Westerling is still missing,” Sansa says, flopping down on Jon’s bed. “Robb thinks she’s hurt.”

“What do you think?” Jon asks, laying besides her.

Sansa shrugs, a careless movement. “I haven’t had time to worry about that. Every time I turn around, though, Robb is on the phone, whispering either to his friends at the FBI or on the phone with Jeyne’s mother. That woman sounds like a nightmare.”

Jon presses a kiss to Sansa’s temple, and she settles against his chest. “You did good today,” he whispers against her skin.

“Thanks,” Sansa says drowsily. Then, almost too quiet for him to hear, “I just want this all to be over.”

“It will be,” Jon promises. He pauses, and then says. “Sansa—we need to talk about what happens when Father does die and Robb starts turning information on us.”

Sansa can feel her muscles lock. This isn’t a conversation she wants to have. “We can—”

“He knows too much. Even if we move all the assets, he knows inside information. He’s got some loyalty with the Manderlys. He’ll put up a fight, you know it.”

Jon’s hand is still in her hair, his lips are still moving against the side of her face. He’s warm. But Sansa is suddenly frozen, an icy dread building in her stomach.

“What are you suggesting?” she asks coldly. “That we _kill_ our brother?”

* * *

  
The snow has begun to fall when Roslin hurries into the diner. He’s there. She didn’t think he’d actually be there.

“I can’t stay long,” Theon says, when she slides into the booth. “Ramsay thinks I’m running an errand. He likes to time how long they take. Last time I was late...” he trails off, stares at his hands, his broken fingers.

“This won’t take long,” she promises. “Theon—” her voice breaks. “Thank you for coming. I…no one else has helped.”

“They won’t,” he says. He’s detatched, but his eyes are wild, darting around the diner as if Ramsay Bolton himself will jump out from behind the counter. “They know to stay away.”

“What do you mean?” Roslin asks, leaning forward. “Theon—you _owe_ me this.”

His mouth twists. “I don’t owe you anything, Roslin. I owe Olyvar. He didn’t deserve…whatever it is he got.”

She feels despair settle in her chest. His voice doesn’t broker an argument. Olyvar—at least from Theon’s knowledge—is dead.

“God,” she whispers.

“I don’t know who did it,” Theon insists.

“You know _something_ ,” Roslin hisses, wiping angrily at the tears that have gathered in her eyes. “You wouldn’t have come if you didn’t.”

Theon’s face flickers. “I—I don’t know for sure. But Jon came by the other day. He thought I told you something about Olyvar, I don’t know…but he seemed ticked off. It could be nothing!” he says, before she can cut him off.

Roslin can feel her face hardening. “It could be,” she mumbles. She’s so tired. God, how she misses Olyvar these days. It’s like a physical part of her is missing. “Or it could be everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you guys think of Arya+Jon's killer duo? The plot is coming together, and we're marching towards the inevitable collision. 
> 
> Please review!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s something unreal about a funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being so patient! I've been super busy but I'm really glad I finally got the chance to update this! I hope you all enjoy!

The wind brings the bite of frost with it.

Sansa shivers, burrowing deeper into her coat. The funeral is longer than any she’s been to before—not that she’s got much experience. Her father tried to keep her away from this side of the world.

Sansa thinks his efforts have gone to waste.

There’s something unreal about a funeral, Sansa observes. She feels like she’s swimming through a dream. The only thing that permeates her fog are Cersei’s sobs and Rickon’s hand squeezing hers.

She hadn’t wanted Rickon to see this. But Robb had insisted. “He has to see,” Robb said, his face white, knuckles clenched against the car’s wheel on their way here. “We all have to see what the consequences of this life are.”

She feels like he’d aimed that statement more at Arya than her, but the comment cuts.

“…murdered…such a shame…taken too young…”

Sansa’s heard those words too many times today. For some reason, no one is actually saying anything about _Myrcella_. Cersei’s grief commands attention today, her angry tears and sobs. But Sansa can’t really pay attention to Cersei, not when Myrcella is dead.

She liked Myrcella. A lot. When she’d been seeing Joffrey, Myrcella was always kind to her. Sansa had once spent a Christmas avoiding Joff and found company in Myrcella, with her sweet smile and soft, teasing manner.

In church, Sansa had caught a glimpse of her face in the coffin. The lower half of her body had been covered by the casket. Too gruesome. But her face had been untouched, easy to identify.

“Let’s pay our respects,” Robb says, when the services are over and Robert Baratheon has stepped down from the podium, his eyes red. Sansa nods, trying to clear the fog from her mind. She tugs Rickon along, makes sure Bran’s wheelchair doesn’t snag on the grass. Arya follows behind silently. She’s taken this…not _well_ , exactly, but very quietly. Sansa has no idea what’s going through her mind.

“Mr. Lannister,” Robb greets Cersei’s twin brother. “I’m so sorry for your loss. If there’s anything we can do—”

Jaime Lannister cuts him off. “You can,” he says, his voice hard. “Help us find who did this.” _And kill them_. Sansa hears all the words he doesn’t say.

Robb’s jaw clenches. “I’ll put my best men to it. Jon is already looking into it.”

Jaime nods. His eyes sweep across the graveyard, past Sansa and Arya and stop briefly at Bran. He shifts his arm in its sling. “Thank you,” he says, his voice low. “I know our families haven’t always gotten along, but I know we all appreciate the help.” His eyes catch something at the edge of the cemetery. “Excuse me, please. I see someone I need to speak with.”

Sansa watches as he makes his way past the mourners and walks towards a policewoman. He looks worn, even more so than Myrcella’s father does.

“Where is Jon?” Bran asks, when they’re ready to leave. “I haven’t seen him all day. Is he really looking for the people who did this?”

Robb nods jerkily. “He’ll be back home tonight,” he says, his voice tight. “Myrcella was killed near our territory. If Cersei Baratheon pulls herself together enough, we’ll be the first people she blames. We can’t have that, especially not now that…”

Sansa shoots him a hard look.

“…that dad’s sick,” Robb finishes.

Arya slides into the car after Sansa and mutters, “Yeah, right. Because Robb suddenly more about our father being sick than his missing girlfriend.”

Sansa bites her lip and restrains the urge to scream.

Unbidden, her words come back to her.

_What are you suggesting? That we kill our brother?_

* * *

 

“Robb is going to make his move,” Ramsay hisses, his coat flapping noisily behind Jon. “You know he is. The only way to get ahead of him is to move first.”

“I know that,” Jon says, not slowing down.  He’s tired, and wants to go home. He can’t deal with Ramsay right now. “But I can’t exactly kill him now. Not with the Lannisters paying attention. The point is not to get into open conflict.”

Ramsay grabs at Jon’s arm. “Then _what_ is the point?” he demands. “You always say Robb isn’t ready to take control, but you haven’t actually done anything to stop it. And now that your father’s sick Robb will step into power and we will _all_ fall.”

Jon wrenches his arm away. “We don’t move until my father is dead,” Jon hisses. “And the _point_ ,” he continues, “is to keep them weak and strike when they’re down. I thought you’d figure that out, since that’s your _job_.”

Ramsay works his jaw, his pale eyes cold on Jon’s.

“If you have a problem,” Jon begins, “you should have thought about that before you threw in with me. I have a plan. I know what I’m doing. Don’t question that.”

Ramsay grits his teeth. “This wouldn’t be a problem if you told me what those plans are,” he insists. After a hard stare, he backs off, like Jon knew he would.

“Stick to what I told you,” Jon says, pulling his keys out. “This will be over sooner than you think.”

Ramsay’s nod is a jerk. “Don’t keep me in the dark for too long,” he warns. “I’m the only friend you have in this.”

The drive back home is too long. Jon’s barely eaten anything but dry cereal today. Pulling men around by the nose on a witch hunt for Myrcella’s killer hasn’t been an _easy_ task, but Jon’s fairly certain it’s gotten the Lannisters and Baratheons off their case—if only for a bit.

* * *

 

Sansa greets Jon with a cup of coffee, black with one sugar—the way he likes it.

“Hard day?” she asks, voice soft. It’s a bit of a peace offering. She hasn’t really spoken to him since that day last week, that awful fight where she’d yelled at him for wanting to kill Robb. But _he_ hadn’t been the one to suggest it, had he? Sansa had.

 “You have no idea,” Jon says, taking the cup gratefully. He leans back against the counter, eyeing her warily. “You’re talking to me again?”

Sansa nods, blinking back tears. “Today was awful,” she tells him, hugging her arms to her chest. “Myrcella and I weren’t close, but we were friends. She was always nice to me. Who would do this to her?”

Jon blows on the hot liquid. “Someone awful, no doubt. This world is full of monsters.” He looks at her through the hair that’s fallen in his eyes. “Did you see what I left you? On your bed?”

Sansa smiles. “Yes,” she says. “It’s a beautiful dress. Thank you.” And it was, long and black and just her style. Sansa knows that he had Dacey pick it out.

Jon smiles back sheepishly. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“I _loved_ it.” Softly, she admits, “You’re the only one that remembered.”

Jon sets the cup down, then, and opens his arms. “Come here,” he says, and pulls her close. Sansa steps into his warmth. “Shh,” he whispers against her hair, when she starts to shake. “Happy birthday, Sansa. Shh, don’t cry. You’re okay, you’re fine.”

* * *

 

Ramsay signs into the hospital under the name “Olyvar Frey.”

He’s 99% sure that Jon’s the one who did Olyvar in. Jon’s not a bad actor, when he needs to be. But Ramsay knows the lightness in Jon’s step the day after a kill. He’d seen it after Olyvar went missing.

There’s a sleeping guard outside Ned Stark’s room—some Manderly man. He’s fat and probably slow, but Ramsay stops to check anyway. He’s been doing this a while, after all. There’s no need to slip up now.

He’s asleep. Ramsay takes his key card with light fingers and enters the room with ease.

Ned Stark. The man had seemed huge to Ramsay when he was younger. His father brought him into the business young, and when Ramsay was fifteen he’d met the boss. Eddard Stark, with his cold grey eyes and the steel in his voice. Ramsay had never admitted this to anyone—not even to Reek—but Eddard Stark had scared him.

This wasn’t him. Not anymore.

“I’d be doing you a favor,” Ramsay whispers, his voice light. He pulls the syringe out of his pocket and weighs it in his palm. It’s not his preferred method. The syringe is too light. Ramsay wants death to have weight. Especially Ned Stark’s death.

“You were a giant, you know,” Ramsay continues, staring down at his hand. “The big bad monster my father was afraid of. Even now, Jon is still afraid of you. He won’t move forward until you’re safely dead. But look at you now. You’re not a giant. You’re not even a man anymore. You’re weak.”

_I’d be doing you a favor._

Ramsay doesn’t want to do Ned Stark a favor. He wants to give him pain.

He unplugs the machinery without much fuss. It’s not hard to figure out. The beeps fade instantly, the heart monitor fading to black. When it’s all off, Ramsay climbs on the bed and places his hands around Ned Stark’s throat.

Giants _can_ be killed, it turns out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! And while you're at it, I'll insert some shameless self-promotion: my friend Lizzie and I are writing a fic together called Cliff's Edge. It's jonsa, and if you like this story, chances are you'll like that one as well. Please check it out/let us know what you think!
> 
> Comments/reviews/observations are always welcome below :D

**Author's Note:**

> Please review! Any suggestions would be great!


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